The Hope that Kills

 

Quakes, within quakes release, the stones grinding the joint crumble as those cookies come on bittersweet and too late. Craters piece together rough smiles that we were never meant to survive. 

I want to be grateful as the neighborhood empties, clocks circle the waiting rooms as we emerge in a sad echo of the lies that we told.

Another year where we stayed home to be brave hoping that they would come back and reclaim us as the west finally was won, and we can rest on set, on queue, in the credits we looked but couldn't find our graves.

The thaw salivates sweating out the ancient fevers of the sad that we never told.

Light dances in and out of time the tempo a fragrance dripping forth.

Doorways standing in a world of our own the endless above choirs of the inner chambers of love.

The hope that kills whistles tunes of belated birthdays that washed away as we widdled down our peace.

Phantom dreams left on a Sunday.

The death that we hoped for casting us in the deleted scenes.

Paintings of impending gloom simmers to a boil, as it burned this house down long ago.

Daisy chains, and forgotten names murmurs of forgotten age.

The catacombs don't go deeper.

Hand in hand from this dirt we will rise.