The writing on the wall

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So familiar we don’t use names,
my friends lay patiently scattered
across my shelves, tucked away
in backpacks and desk drawers,
waiting to be bled and fed on,
to be tortured under my pen;
my vicariants, the bodies I stab
with voodoo pins and superstition,
the windows broken in base fits
of neanderthalism with raw fists,
covering my straining halftruths
with halftruths of their own
(only together are we whole),
tossing dirt over my shame,
watching with silent greed
as I slip down rabbit holes
of fantasy, habit, and humility;
my blood brothers, my compatriots
in the trenches, my captors.

Will you find them all someday,
their stained skin laying bare
the topography of all I’ve hidden
deep within the ink’s void?
Will you recoil at their sins,
at the thirst that is my thirst,
your memories of me fading
like footprints in the desert,
or will you take them for truth,
for the ruler I measure by,
the lens so fixed before me
even I no longer notice it?

(dtn)

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2 Comments

Filed under Words

2 responses to “The writing on the wall

  1. Norma

    You make me think, Dave. Nice!

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