I've been told that dead men don't tell tales,
but even worse are those that live and scream out truth through their wails.

A bleeding heart stored on the cusp of each evenings glow,
I clap my hands at this life's end, such a terrible show.

There's pressure planted at the base of each king's throne,
a different taste, desire and let down for something more homegrown.

A rupture in space through the waves of one heart mimic,
harder and harder to face life's twists and turns by setting unreal limits.

I picture time leaned back, relaxing; testing its own struggle,
a few more breaths, here and there, is what I'm trying to smuggle.

The end of days has a commonality with that of a dial tone,
both calling out, trying to be heard, but ultimately dying alone.

Evicted emotions are the envy and the end-all of the wax and wane,
forgive and forget so that in the near future you can fall prey the same.

Disregard feelings like a dusty souvenir sitting on a high shelf pawn shop,
push on, take names, and whatever you do, never retreat or stop.

Regurgitated fears as I choke back free flowing tears,
taking another crack at your misguided attack has set me back fifteen years.

Using your wit, a bit, you must admit has helped you climb the ladder,
but wholesome, and truthfulness, no, that's an entirely different matter.