skonen_blades

Fill each coffin up with years. Swing them on balance beams and let the cats out of the old hotel. I want the life of a jury nestled deep within the wood of an arrow to find a home. These are the outstretched arms of an apology.

I’m calling you.

I’m an undead pope come back from the grave to tell you the secret. Music in a tuxedo with a bullet hole turning whatever time I have left into an hourglass that begs. My bones are a stuttering staircase that roll themselves into a punch of blood music. The rimshot of my heartbeat tells the audience when to laugh.

Swim away from the bruises. Months later, you’ll be mystified why you ever stayed. You can’t see the fuse getting closer to your life or the clock strapped to your back. I’ve seen your long legs before. They’re made for running. Use them.

If love is blind, why did someone give it a bow and arrow? Cupid’s random sniper eyesight is making a farce of all of this. We are fools for love in every respect.

We are insects trapped in amber on the hilt of a sword. You have a honeycomb inside your chest making square dances out of morals. When he hits you, I feel it. Let’s transform my dark-brown POS into an ejection seat, hide outdoors and leave the city limits behind us for years.

Coming to your rescue is a job for a job for pearl divers. I’m not a strong swimmer. I can’t hold my breath. You think you’re a mermaid but you’re not. You’re drowning.

There’s a theme song for a television show from the seventies going through my head as the sunset catches up with me. I’ve run out of time. My warnings have been unsaid, and it’s time to head back to the grave. Maybe one day this world will get it right but for now, we have to believe that the triumph lies in the attempt.

And nowhere else.




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