Constance; it proved delayed again, true. The battle scars of all you are remain echoed in the hue; the blues, the reds, ricocheted off your head as energy goes missing and Diaspora winds up dead. I saw your silhouette on wanted poster, defaced with time and vandalized past words you could even recognize; your fugitive legend lives on just like a Johnny Cash song.
I remember the dual in town square, the fight between memory and the noose left on a chair. The regrets defect to recollect – a photograph I hold, the flash, still bold, doesn’t mind what it is told as the radiance completes and pleasantries are sold. The countdown between the gun and the ground reverberates off windows and feels more than it sounds - I remember silly things like the way skies alive with blue are the surest bet to the memory of you.
The dance we sing relates everything; the time, the place, the soft lines of her face – the lust and love as shadows drop above.
I’ve never loved anyone in the way I love everyone. I feel the warmth within my empty pocket, a pocket that weaves tales as eyes set sail. A piece of dust rising from the ash as memories defy impact; alone again or, since no one can tell me, I reinvent myself so I can say that it is what I’m told. I am the flashing of an instance that re-presents the equation; in symmetry, in manner, in form.
Lies alive become a vague, anarchic form of truth. This is the truth I live; a broadened form of self destruction, a manic repercussion from an emotions own eruption. It’s hardly worth discussion, but memory has suffered a concussion and the only words worth trusting aren’t true. It’s me and you. You and me, or so I see as you see it doesn’t depend on symmetry. If only I could vocalize calligraphy, or politely excuse my entropy but the main part that’s bugging me is the only air I can not breathe.
So now I live a vacated tomorrow; an equal sign divided and subtracted to its sorrow. A life of lies, a life alive - I refuse to accept truth and instead wind up living when I should be dead. I go missing with a beacon on my head.
It’s in the shadow of truth that my mind feels abused; I know the words but have forgotten their use. It’s the fear of reality that lies are the truth and all the echoing sounds that remind me of you. As though I’d actually gotten away, my fists raised high in victory, a chorus of rain began to follow me. Thunder lauded the sky as though begging an encore and the hair on my neck began to dance – a thought I believed that could not be left to chance. The electric disruption, a faint form of percussion, clapped louder than the bolts as all of the volts caressed the dreams of circuitry and the form faded from memory.
This is how I learned to breathe – or learned to fly or learned to jump through a needle’s eye.