;
                                                         Warped
                                                          ­     Or
                                             A Bit of This and That

A bit of this and that

                                                           ­ 

Into a bar walks a man
A boy
A detective
A criminal without a name
Slapping a bill and a glass of ice and alcohol does a slide
A slow stop
A fast topple
An absence of a drink entirely. Irrelevant.
Commencing suddenly, a bar fight
A dead end
A song
A rumor of something-or-another
Out of the bar sits a nameless metropolis
A city
A kingdom
An honest-to-god space station

Technology is rampant and ubiquitous
More, farther, than now

He droops with the weight of a world

                                                          ­       *

The child looks out the window of a home
A hospital
A school
An orphanage with its own share of stories-not-to-be-told-now
Some kind of breath creates a frost
A ghost
A memory
An obscurity of something that might have probably not happened
Because it is cold from a snowstorm
A light rain
A wind
A day so bright that ice cream melted too fast
And now, enter a thief
A hero
A replica
A cold presence not unlike brain freeze

Something is about to begin, a life in progress
As is now, present, in the moment

The child smiles a child’s smile to the newcomer about to alter a life

                                                           ­       

On a blood-soaked field corpses stands an artist
A drummer boy
A scythe-wielder
A prisoner, who stood rather not quick trial, and now faces punishment
Fighting over what are the rights of a man
A people
A society
A heaven that has its own plans and machinations
Nothing more than an afterthought
An epic
A joke
A fragment whose significance is to be pondered by those of the future
The corpses speak in blood a prayer
A promise
An apology
A great and melodious chant resulting from years of propaganda and faith

Maybe, someday, someone will bless the faithless
Of the past, a memory, gone

Memories of sunset blend with a led astray field

                                                          ­          *

Writer’s block: Defined as an inability
A deficiency
A long night
A result of completely and utterly mastering procrastination
Ideas, a search for ideas around a dark room
A glass of alcohol
A window of frost
A picture of the sunset from some country one will never see
Back to a desk, looking back a blank page
A defiance
A regret
An excuse to return to Reddit, TvTropes, and the general pull of the Internet
No. Not anymore. I am a writer
A liar
A charlatan
A nobody with a something in the running for the award of “Biggest insult to poetry”

A black mirror of shattered glass comes to view
Cracks, fragments, lives

With a million billion warped reflections staring back