It was that widescreen sort of moment,
where the night sky stretched like navy blue silk
and the stars bedazzled through the atmosphere,
the perfect scene to begin the end.

With leather hands upon wooden handles,
the tense preparation rocked to and fro,
and each sibling knew they needed to state their vows
before there were no hands, big or small, to follow.

Like she had all the decades of her life,
the sister sprinted head-first through the pack
and began the ceremonial encounter,
tears already ******* the outlines the eyes.

"My warrior growl would have simply dwindled,
my loving strength would have never surfaced,
were it not for the development
of my watchful eye towards you.

I give you a thanks that spans across galaxies
for making me realize that the woman running in this heart
could delve much deeper than her surroundings,
and form a bond that gives much too pride for one lifetime."

With a breathless exhale tinged in red excitement,
the brother nearly jumped from his rocker,
more than ready to begin his greatest wordplay
and make them both depart with a bang.

"I don't know how my life span would have thrived
if you had not looked me straight in the eyes
and made me realize that layers are nothing
but barriers for the tangled lands of your ****-eyed innocence.

You were not just a pillar of strength;
you were a carrier who made the human spirit contagious.
If they could not quiet you as a mortal,
Lord knows how they'll try in Heaven."

So each said their piece,
and with the peaceful fog
clouding both of their minds,
they realized it was time.

It was a quiet disintegration,
with each participant smiling, eyes slowly closing,
freeing themselves from their bodies like stardust
towards their own constellation in the sky.

I wish I could drive a fossilized Cadillac
right through an arid desert
in the middle of Arizona
so my desolation can have its own landscape.

I’ll ask the grains of sand
rocketing in swirls around the wind
if they've seen my talent running by;
I’ve been calling it for months now.

The citizens of Earth are not cold.
It was just my eyes that gave them frostbite,
my mind that morphed their faces
to resemble the hideous change within.

I’m not sure if that’s a truth
that fate has put on layaway since birth,
or perhaps a rumor that’s been force fed
like wart-ridden frogs to the purest of tongues.

All I want at this point
is to be a center of a desert’s mushroom cloud,
leaving with a new look at the sky
and a bit of dry skin.

I am utterly convinced
that my spirit is a ten-cent *****,
letting any passing nemesis
**** it in the mind
with almost no tension.

It must enjoy the sensation
as its host clearly shows
in the streams of tears
that flow through the eyes,
the spirit's *******.

It must moisten its knickers
at the viewing of torture,
as its host sits in an icy stupor,
with the times of grotesque
spectacle-sobs on tile flooring,
nicks on the wrist, what have you-
the only times of breathing.

My spirit must have stolen all the
charm it takes to captivate
the enemy into arousal,
as the host stumbles awkwardly in
public, pushing all potentials away
with vehemence and convincing itself
of its inferior quality to
even the vermin of the sewer.

My spirit has made me the loathing host
to the parasite of my own being,
my mind the main casualty,
ridden with **** from villainy both
outer and inner, decay from traumas
more persuasive than the tongue
of Casanova.

I hope it's happy.

As the exhaust spewed its mourning glum
onto the whimpering porcelain snow,
the chauffeur looked up and desperately prayed
for an Academy Award winner.

"Novelty tears shall spout at all times!"
And the thespian will charge through those double doors,
beginning his craft from the moment he hears the ***** *****
singing the deceased's pleas towards the golden gate of Heaven
and crunching through an audience of bawling admirers
of a man he barely knew.

He was chosen to give the eulogy.
Designated to speak on the behalf
of man he never thought to glance at twice,
besides the intervals of days spent
despising the realization of his existence,
resenting the scars created in surplus quantities,
stomping down the darkest layers still oozing from the coffin.

For a handful of hours, it must all become a waning spark for the
method actor giving the most crowd-pleasing breakdown of his life,
delivering a perfectly tailored recital
cloaked to all the front-pew viewers
as a heartfelt elegy.

"Just a few hours," he thought as the double doors creaked,
and the scene will end with him sliding into his car,
a dead weight off his shoulders,
driving victoriously into the sunset.

A new set of tears rolled with the end credits,
along the face of the son,
liquidating the thespian with their bleak sincerity.
They were drops of remorse
for a bond that was never born,
with an abortion in a wood encasing
for all those people out there in the dark.

The elegant madwoman with a golden valor.
Louder than the falling trees
stumbling everywhere around her feet!
The spiritual mother, everyone's empress,
a concrete rose blooming over every obstacle
as if she were a one-woman, 21st century dynasty
with no malfunctions in its empire.

But, there's something writhing its way out
from the cellar reserved for her scathing history.
Past the cobwebs and futile pretensions of valiance
lies this warrior queen's greatest desire:
shrouded in shame, the need for love still haunts.
But it won't some accessory amid the ninth cloud!

Hard work and minimum wage flow much more smoothly.
She's known this since she discovered the world,
since she entered a home full of broken furniture
and reeking of alcoholic breath and stagnant, bitter tensions
that were released when father's fist met daughter's face,
and her bruise-soaked body became the symbol of her innocence.

That must be why she spends so much time
in the darkest Brooklyn alleys, selling her self-respect
to any man feeling particularly kind that night,
and letting any detrimental cycle resurface
for just one rush of vulnerability.

This contemporary queen dons a crown bejeweled with more grit
than the streets of three New York boroughs,
yet all she requires of the world that she holds in her hand
like a ruler deciding the fate of her people
is someone to transform adoration from myth to reality.
Will she ever find light from the alley?

I
It's quite the tragic statistic,
when the last thing on earth
that approaches your face
is a patch of brown grass,
pale and dry from age,
dead from poor nourishment,
just like your need for acceptance.

And it’s even more destructive
when the scarlet sentences
shrieking down your face
were pulled from your bone marrow,
all the way through your thick, coarse skin,
by the dense and moldy weapon
swung in the hands of the town’s valiant savior.

Yes, there are rapists and fascists
living in each corner of the street,
looting their families of their dignity,
******* on the very words they glorify,
but the crooked joints in your limp wrist
might as well be a bull’s eye on your forehead.

The tides of holy water did not burn off an inch,
did not smother your facet of human nature.
You did not blindly agree with our fright-ridden hatred,
so the only and easy way out
is to induct you into our slaughterhouse,
all because you loved.

Can love be executed so poorly
that it awaits a death penalty?
In a Utopian tyranny, anything can die.

And they wonder,
with our dying breath,
and the dirt being shoved
against our battered faces,
why we declare a riot call.

II
I have sent a request
to all the white cone clad
twiddling their thumbs with menace
and hunting for their latest scapegoat
to mask their feelings of inadequacy...

As the **** on my garage door
slithers your hatred along
in the form of the word "******"
and the last three men who shook me to the core
have been reduced to front page casualties,
I beg to finally join
this league of humankind.

Please, ladies and cavemen, do as I ask
or I might just lead myself
to break
your double standard necks into thousands
of desperate times that surpass desperate measures.

I will no longer be reduced
to another strange fruit hanging
on the ******* tree, for I've seen
the shards of glass showering
like hurricane rainfall
over your Stone Age architecture.

Preaching your "manhood", your "sanctity"
on your altars as the color
of your wife's eyes
seems to slip your busy mind,
as your first born
reiterates your perspective
with a tape recorder ribbon
composed of tangled heartstrings.

It must stop.
Those sounds of you slinging
your fists and your speech
towards all, including
your own flesh and blood.

Our palms can't stay nailed to the wooden floor,
our lips can't stay sewn shut anymore,
angels writhing in their graves,
your time has run out.

Here, my friend, is your riot call.