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Image for the poem For Mira

For Mira

It’s a funeral. It’s a loss. That’s why there are no words.
  
There’s nothing documented between  
Aardvark  
And  
Zyzzyva  
That can fill the void  
Of you  
In my life,  
Nor frame  
My utter  
Devastation  
   
Nothing  
That will unwound you, but  
The day is long and  
Boring, so  
I fucking dance,  
Kick up my  
Heels,  
Amidst  
The dim  
Procession  
   
I fuck stupid  
I, stupid fuck  
I, Exilis  
I fuck things up  
   
Hey, ditty ditty  
And there’s nothing pithy, there’s  
Only  
Ache  
That rises from the  
Disturbed  
Earth of its  
Frequented  
Grave,  
To haunt, to  
Dog  
My thinning steps  
   
In the focal crux  
Of your disappointment, every  
Gesture  
Bent  
By the dire  
Gravity of your  
Frigid  
Distance,  
If I  
Were more  
Than words,  
Words wouldn’t have been enough  
To warrant barbs, you openly  
Justified, in their  
Application  
   
So, here’s my lash  
And when  
It’s quiet, we’ll play  
Tag  
And press sheets  
Of paper  
To the wounds  
   
Pollock was an alcoholic, but I  
Have you,  
Your spectre,  
To blood me  
   
So crucify me in your cruelly  
Unmovable  
Characterization,  
For my missteps,  
And call it  
Justice,  
Just desserts,  
Plum pudding,  
Blood sausage  
And in this paradigm of  
Utter  
Absurdity, we  
Find ourselves  
Hurled about a    
Dark cosmos, where  
Twenty years  
Of solitude  
Are rewarded  
By a sumptuous meal, before  
A clinical execution,  
Witnessed  
By interested parties  
   
Draw back the curtain, only  
So far,  
Hold up the billet,  
For all  
To see,  
Hear ye, hear ye,  
I wasn’t good enough,  
I didn’t measure  
Up,  
We’re too fucking perfect  
For each other,  
Too fucking perfect,  
So,  
Replace me  
With someone better,  
Build them a fucking monument,  
So you can drape me  
In its cold shadow  
   
I’m here, apparently, the greater evil,  
Neck bowed  
By a disproportionate  
Weight  
Of Machiavellian horns,  
On this corner  
Of abandonment  
   
I’ll moisten the old tape  
Wrapped  
Around my heart,  
Smooth it down  
With a thumb and when it  
Curls  
Back up, I’ll  
Do it over, and I’ll  
Do it again,  
My mother’s arthritis has flared up, so  
I’ll make her breakfast  
And smile at the inane game shows that  
Divert  
Her attention  
   
Later,  
I’ll squat beside Archimedes  
And chalk the floors  
   
And on the social sites I’m something  
Dread  
Awed,  
Like a gorilla  
Behind bars,  
Unapproachable,  
Somewhere between its gargantuan
Beauty and unpredictable  
Might  
Or  
They collect me like  
Baseball cards  
To fill a plastic sleeve  
Between  
Thursday and  
January and  
Nothing  
That I am  
Is felt,  
Just like you  
   
I’m not human  
To any of you,  
I’m just an alphabet  
   
All we are and  
Have been, is  
Lost  
In wars,  
Innumerable,  
In their destructive  
Force  
   
We're tossing and  
Turning  
In the bed  
We've unmade  
And all I say is  
(Miss)  
Construed  
For pride  
And the wound  
Grins its 26  
Teeth  
Through the screen  
And why is sometimes a vowel  
   
Rain seeps through  
Overhead  
Cracks and when  
Fallen  
In abundance,  
Creeps  
Under doors  
   
If I’m nothing real to you,  
You surveyor of  
Letters,  
Picture me as  
Pots and  
Brooms, imagine me  
As echoed  
Wounds,  
Circling avenues  
   
If you hear nothing else, hear  
My truth,
 
There are no words.
 
Hear my  
Footfalls,    
As I search for you
Written by DanielChristensen (The Fire Elemental)
Published
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