Lies

“If you go looking for love you won’t find it because love is never lost; only we are lost.”
 Shannon L. Alder

~

The rhythm is lost and, then, found again. And the eye is centered on the heart of sin.

The headaches return and the colors fade. Self-hate is at the door. Three knocks and a half later, I find my hand on the broken knob, an armless, timeless clock.

The world is a ball of gray spit and all heartbeats are frozen midair. Your smile has lost sight of childhood's shore and, though I know I told you to be patient, we both know you blink the rust off the eyelashes of each lonely dreamless night.

Now whether it's martyr, monster, mystic, maya or all that precedes this sign, choose your destiny. Choose the word beneath the phenomenon. Choose wisely because the navy ointment's extremities will stretch around you like a bubble. And the spherical sky will sail and burst at the corner of your lips. Now you will either taste the passion of transcendence beyond the suspension of the ethical or... you'll suffocate. Two knocks and a half earlier, you'll find yourself choking on your own poison - a fading stain locked inside the four bloodless chambers of the heart you sold.

Look around, beneath and, then, beyond this ornamented lie. Look again and tell me - tell me. What do you see?

Picture the face of the stranger in the shattered waves. Picture the photograph you would want as a discolored pillow alongside the dust of your decaying cheekbones. Picture the innermost layer of your being waiting for your deepest fear to serve for the existential championship point at the turn of the next sentence. I Love You. Did you just smile? Did the thunderous voice of serotonin caress your thighs as your eyes inhaled the silence of this digital juice of romantic lies?

All you need to do to survive this fictional web of deception is to find your rope, tie the knot that binds purpose to identity, and just hold on - or perhaps ascend. But the question's right there, etched on the inside of your bloodshot palms. Can you feel the taste of vinegar as these worded acidic threads struggle out of your sore throat?

Can you smell the horror behind this scented fantasy? Or are you just as numb and oblivious as I am? Decompose the confusion. Pour vile metaphors on your core contusion. Recompose the melody. Forsake that unpaid debt. Replay the delusion. Re-calculate. Rephrase. The answer is always the same; you can't breathe.

The rhythm is lost and, then, lost again. The eyes are frantic and the heart is- what heart?

~

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”
 Ernest Hemingway