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Archer 12h
Enjoying ice cream in a warm summer's rain,
lapping at the sides of a soggy cone
as it melts away.
Admiring the beauty of my red balloon
post-escape, from my grasp,
against a backdrop, grey.
A moment of clarity in my jumbled head
disintegrates before I can hold
the body of its soft decay.

So I wash my cotton candy.
Rip random pages from my unread novels.
Spill coffee on my white shirt.
My thoughts are so heavily redacted,
the adlibs, not funny anymore.
I struggle to ingest
through a soggy and limp paper straw,
my chosen poison.
No longer able to draw up the sugary delight,
I throw away my treat,
artificially coloured with red dye number five.
Archer 13h
Ask me a question,
and shake me up.
Non-sensical answers
to queries, best left unspoken.
Get some mild amusement.
Chuckle as I struggle
to rationalize.
Through my dark blue mentality
and against my will,
all signs point to YES.
Archer 2d
The backlog of tears welled.
It hurled my eyes out of focus.
Salty droplets
through which to view my confession.
My fluid lenses glazed over,
flavoured with painful memories.
The smoke furled,
as the fire laughed,
crackling a cackling
at my unease-
-but I continued to read.
My voice, not so confident,
shook with every passage
of time and word.
My skepticism,
seeping out of me,
as the question drifted away-
-had I not yet healed.
A ghost limb,
tapping my shoulder,
reminding me,
once upon a time
I didn't feel this way.
The spectre of a boy full of hope,
long gone but not dead,
curled up,
hiding in the recesses,
from the man,
I've yet, become.
The naivety of my youth
sprawled across the published pages.
A self-portrait I had forced myself to paint.
The fabrication
of length and separation,
from one instance to another
that wasn't so long ago,
stung sharply,
as the words escaped my throat.
The rogue wave
crashed over me
and all I could do
was look away.
A collection of broken people,
perhaps, not as broken as myself.
My camouflage melted,
butter dropped in a hot skillet,
floated around as it shrunk,
reminiscent of a ballet of blade on ice.
My January frame,
once home to soft green dreams,
lay bare and exposed.
It contained no resistance
to prying, frigid winds.
It reminded me,
while I may look and feel dead,
naked and numb,
habitually waving with budless branches-


-hidden beneath a protective husk,
on the inside,
written throughout my concentric rings of growth,
I am very much
still alive.
Archer 5d
I am covered head to toe
in my story.
Wet blood,
causes unease.
quick to wash their hands.
Their sinks,
stained with my dye,
are quickly scoured.
Pour some bleach on me.
Maybe it will change,
who I am
and what colours people see.
Archer May 10
The recourse, still sticky.
Gurgling and bloated,
it licks and hurts.
The synonym upset
for not being first.
I shake my head in disbelief.
how I could have been so wrong.
Archer May 2
I tenderly cup your light.
Pull it to my chest.
Place it on my heart,
as I ask the sun,
to not burn so bright.

It could never outshine.

My life's illuminated by your memories.
They never fail to entice words of passion on paper.
So much so that the ink bleeds through.
Archer May 2
My meandering mind
finds no dolce far niente.
It skips, jumps, falls and plays.
Abounding thoughts,
a kitten, (the cuniculus kind).
Light, as it dances,
off the surface of a rolling stream.
The appearance
of a (not so) random notion,
remains elusive
to my belfry's grasp.

I let it run free.
Released from its cage.
Not tied to an ideal,
it floats around,
crossing imagined boundaries.
Breaking veritable rules,
without bona fide consequence.
The repercussions, stated in silence,
to me, by my ego in my head.
The monologue,
a familiar warning,
serves to direct my contemplations,
ruminations to different situations.
Often there's a common thread
that's wrapped around
my psyche's finger.

I feel you tug,
from somewhere unseen.
The filament gets taunt.
You're doing things,
unbeknownst to me.
Your life playing out,
without my smile or gaze.
I oft wonder
if you feel my gentle pulls.
Jigging, like a lure,
to entice you to nibble or bite.
The purpose has been lost
and the pain still numbs me,
like my purple, throbbing digit,
bound tightly by our skein.

I refuse to let go.
The weft, without a fabric.
The rabbit with no home.
So I let it frolic about.
Wander and explore.
Free from my oppression,
it actively searches for you.
Without my repression,
it winds along,
following the connection
between two hearts
that never met their fates.
This mental tug of war,
and the struggle that proceeds.

I would collide worlds
to feel your touch.
I would destroy myself,
again and again,
to be under your breath.
I would drink the oceans dry
and traverse the sedimentary remains,
scattered with shipwrecks,
across Cthulhu's welcome mat
if you called, with open arms.
I would turn the deserts into a mirrored glass expanse
with the immutable fire
that still burns fiercely for you.

My love has no circumscribe.
The universe, not large enough
to separate your image
from my conscious thought.
I'd dive past the event horizon
of the most hellacious black hole
just to stop time,
so your image, my singularity,
is the last thing I see
before I'm ripped to pieces (again).
After eons of infinities,
the spark in my soul would still remain.
I'd become the final, abiding star
that will always fall for you
if you wished for me, anew.
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