If I were on it, I'd align and live
a day worth the dent,

But if it's obvious or not I sense
created consent.

I try to fabricate a way in which
to break from the grip,

But it's appalling how inactive wings
will stay in the crib.

I see a season peeking in and out of clouds,
twiddle thumbs at my reflection
waiting numb at the direction of the wind

Brittle lungs hope to wrestle the distention
My complexion shows the symptoms
My assumptions were it's manifesting sin

It's the stagnant pool of water
It's a faltering foundation
guiding hands to feed the slaughter
Drawing lines to frame them in.

I make my mirror into butcher,
draw conclusions from the surface,
tunnel deep into the portrait,
judge the avatar as worthless.

We're just lonely little boxes,
on the surface,
if we only see the surface,
but the ocean drowns the treasure
for the divers to uncover

Will the tyrant butcher keep us boxed in cages
dancing superficial cadence
here to languish
never speaking to each other

Or can we assume the seasons feed the roots,
beneath the surface,
seed resurgence of connection,
see a new escape begin.

Look at us deciphering from scattered bits of simple cadence

Gluing framing gaining prudent palette learning newer flavors

Loosening the meaning proving brighter than you once expected

Catapulting action leaving no depiction undisected.

Incomplete induction building context of compressed impressions

Sifting pieces understanding wanderlust in simple lessons

Pouring into view the words
Assuming form in function destined

Coloring a loose interpretation
Fusing loving heaven.

Seldom do the patrons of this theater construct it perfect

None the less the picture seeds a lust and makes the effort worth it

Loading up my black mirror Skinner box to feel connected

Growing in the recesses craft horrors have recollected

Knowing when the tendrils attach more ascend to deck and
Burrow with an aim to enact order and stay infected.

Preying on desire with cracked swords a solemn gesture
spills aboard aloft an impactful throne of sordid fester

None adorn a thwarting reaction as a suit of armor
Gunning for the floor the distraction of a warring vessel.

Thunder isn’t half of the problem pouring ocean water.
Nothing but an echo, the past it seems was scarcely special

Wonder if the grip will relax if I can paddle harder
Sunder every bridge in a gasp for the forgotten nestle

Covered up in plastic, ******* thinks he’s just a farmer
Wonder when the bones in my back will feed the mortar pestle.

Fumble with a weapon enraptured in the frozen water
Doesn’t change the fact that the ******* on another level

Ivy prying sickly little patterns
Over weathered marble

Drying into autumn
Soured clover spitting flower fodder

Power living deeper
Seething stranger towers clouding water

River founding cities
Plowing fitting visions vowing honor

Dying in the streets
Among the leaf appearing from a gutter

Under marching clutter singing arbor into many others

****** if a murmur isn’t echoed further outing fathers

Bound to pass a burden
Surgeon scalpel serving hallowed daughters

Hours over eons
Over galaxies or galant parents

Drowning in a sea of turning time
Below the grinding planets

Finding little moments
Here and there
To stir the brewing panic

Signing every letter
Leather binding
Solemn coward banished

Given up already
Dreading answers only getting silence

Searching furrowed forest
Lurking treasures forming learned guidance

Breathy whispers egging
Empty guesses  pouring from the pious

Crying over constellations
Craven paper tiger liars.

If it's a distance empty from the A to B we can't decipher.
lined along with bricks and mortar, stick and stone left how we like em.
How do efforts scurry through assuming light could bless the shadow
nose to sky with hopeful glances honing in on roads of gravel.

Growing disillusion suits a lofty breadth of chest to beat on
knowing in the end a setting sun eclipses better eons.
Apropos of nothing and devoid of any hopeful signal
known to try imposing gold on weathered stone, and broken spindles

Drew the yoke upon a sect who we prescribed a disposition
drawing red each sordid line, insuring they'll be sent to prison.
Never free. The harvester assumes the fruit have grown impatient
failing here to see them printing license plates on new plantations.

Maybe in the future we'll refuse the craven role, observer,
graduate to breaking through, return the lives we stole with fervor.
Maybe while elites are keen to trim the fat and clip the losses,
we'll discover links they hadn't seen, between our little boxes.

"Forgive us," We chant.  

they're only words that we've inherited
an outline we've decided
history's absurd parameters
the language we've provided
as if trust in our alignment
to a violent set of precepts can be merited.

     Civil Culture?

It's a culture of the owner
simple values we've inducted
printing match sticks out of loners
when the world is deconstructed
do you measure up or fold it
you reduce the world to numbers
blew the lid off feuds abundance
knew the billionaires would fund it

     What's it mean?

Doesn't matter.
it's a remnant
not a battle.
don't dissect it
never tattle
golden goose
baby rattle

stolen goods
failing castle
swollen foot
gravy saddle
smoke and soot
pale and fragile
cut the fruit
use a scalpel.    

     This is...

     Strange fruit.