Tracing Paper

A flask with a task,
A gun in a glass.
Cold clink against your lips,
Click of drowning ice chips.

I could taste the fire in you;
Smoke, powder and subterfuge.
Lingering, the trace of steel
And iron grit beneath your wheel.

Crimson stark and glistening spray,
The echo of those words you deemed to say;
I could scream but mine will never reach,
I stare at the crucifix and find nothing to seek.

Time is the cruelest of masters,
Between moments, joy and disasters;
Regrets and broken promises left to shatter,
Stains to mar my developed character.

A moment in time between words of hate and love,
I could caress and kill without a murmur of protest from above;
Callous, let the cards of this kingdom fall,
Thy will be done and kill them all.

Why do the innocent suffer?
Why does she die after they cuff her?
Nails to the chalkboard of my soul,
Insane and awake, or eyes shut to the role

That we continue to play.
Oh, isolationist, you can’t escape this parlay;
Tattoo evil to your eyes, ears and mouth,
Bear the fruits of malcontent to the north and south.

Forsaken. Stricken. Broken. Ash.
Nothing but the loss, the fractured clash;
It’s about sawing off limbs just to be free,
It’s about finding myself, and being me.

Sometimes it’s redemption,
Despite condemnation;
Honesty without despair,
Something just and fair.

Unattainable, unachievable,
A world of fantasies,
Of kings and ramseys.

Not a shout, but a fingerprint,
A mark, a smudge, a bit of lint;
Nothing but the lonely heart,
Nothing but disappointment left to rip apart.

Wrap the noise and save the day,
Haste the end and burn the light away;
Put out the flame and embrace the night,
Kill the dove and let ravens take flight


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