There is a wound that sits behind the eye Triad tonality, a fearsome sigh Plucks a ****** chord Lyric’d by the word “why?” Acid fingers grin in lust Anticipating another ****** into the belly Of time gone by Hot skin taut and merely waiting For suicides to release their hands In the chain their concert makes Eternities in some hellish waste lived in only seconds. How strong the forces are! So steep a severing blow! Still fresh a carrion scar, festering miles still to go To beset the pinkest eves This blade of regret Within a greater narrative, Tiny little vignettes Armed in fashion of drunken odes Those promises sworn to keep Accompanied by such pathos woes Accoutered, finally, in weep. Brandished when it’s not so fresh: This minor paring of my flesh Gleaming in the summer laughs To caterwaul my gaff, or plural if you like The humor undercuts enormity Or screams on shafts in biting breezes This lived-in clime I, this prey, displeases. Unsheathed, the memories, in jovial acts of war Besiege, beleaguer, the since-immured True blood and guts long-since obscured By friendliness, camaraderie Intentions jester-pure Trick suppressing-shields raised, jaundiced wills will not deflect No blade or arrow of regret.