Solid flow, like a craggy avalanche, like a seduction of the new.
Tiny pebbles of broken promises.
Giant crashing boulders, ripping through townhomes and cottages, bulldozing the hapless villagers.
The happy folk were listening, this is how their god has chosen to reward them.
We'll anticipate mudslides and wildfires next.
Catastrophe after catastrophe.
We smile, as we promise to never love again.
I've seen the edge of too many dawns,
too many lonely sunrises,
too many idle blades of a blood critic's tongue.
Congratulations, they say.
We're so proud of you, they probe.
What's next, they twist.
I always knew, they lie.
Dirty fingers run through filthy hair.
Smoke curls around stale drink.
Ash falls from the twisted paper,
certifying, reminding, signifying
so precious little.
I was there.
I wasn't pretending.
And yet, here I am, upon this throne of lonely empty nothing.
A wreathe of deception, a fiefdom of cold fire and crumbling, dust covered walls.
Grey dreary eyes looking to grey dreary skies.
Nothing for us here, nothing of us here.
A chipped tin blade in arthritic tightly clenched knuckles.
King of a still heart, empty shell knights, broken toy soldiers, their shattered bodies and rusty daggers left in my back to decay and remind me of the insult of the oblivious, and malicious.
But a static heart does not pulse to bleed.
And here I will wait, everlasting in stiff cobwebbed oblivion.
Here I will wait, parched til my skin is waxy and crumbling like sun baked parchment,
abandoned like a jagged glass-edged corner stone,
cast aside like life weary shears unfit to slice butter-
with a great wealth of everything, from the dancing dustmites in the gathering pillars of dawn,
to this great handful of heart filled nothing.
