wax-coated tables
sealed with stains of
vinegar, cheese
and questions from my father

what is his story

Behind every story
there is struggle
betwixt highlighted glory.

snowy hills,
mountain peaks,
laughter.

there was a drain
******* it all away
as if today was always
a black and white yesterday.

and so I brought red into the equation.
a knife-
bringing dormant veins
to life.

silence is the loudest
silence is the saddest
alone and dragged
unwillingly
down one-way streets

chemicals misfiring.
They don't understand
development of false wiring.

The blueprints had shined-
there were smiles in between the notes.
The eights were serotonin,
the wholes were adrenaline.

Silence still screamed.
When nothing speaks for years,
the crust rusts eyes
like the underside
of the old Ford
in dad's shop.

Beats,
kisses,
*****.

The rust spread north
as my extremities
fell to the ocean floor.

I fear I cannot float on
any longer.

Somewhere between
pills,
plastic,
a princess,
and polycentric support
was the epicenter.

It tasted like fudge
on a warm winter evening
by the fireplace.

The silence still screams-
I doubt it will ever cease.
But the secret is always knowing
that the sun still shines during sleep.

this is where he lies;
this is his story-
betwixt his struggle
love,
art,
and
invisibly,
blinding glory