same clothes and the same smell,
same room and the same hair gel–
good handwriting and the fairwell–
every now and then I just feel compelled
to lay in ash and let the heart churn.
to lay in ash and let the scars burn.
to lay in ash in hopes I’ll discern
what the past is yelling with a reverb
same clothes and the same smell,
dead heart lives in a young cell
and the water’s dried in a new well,
could I be the pool that’ll consume hell?
just a drop, just a drop
a drip of time for a broken clock
a moment merry with a single petal
until life’s hands come to cut your knot
but a word, whether auditory or a written letter
whisper to me or pick up your feather
rehash to me a time of us together
or just give detail of the local weather
same clothes and the same smell,
too familiar but I can’t tell
how the notes played don’t produce spells
is it wordplay? Is it truth–
truth is, truth is hidden by a hoodie–
silhouette, water–dirt, very muddy
with confusion, has me seeing blurry;
tears of hope sting, supper’s full of hurting and
the similarity is too concerning…
same clothes and the same smell,
but the voice, no, no the voice fails
and the face lies, quite the fox tail
this is not right, this is not real
–
a wolf in white wool tells me I’m his friend
the teeth in his jaw are bathed in fresh blood
we’re friends from the past and though I thought he was dead
he defeated his troubles like he said that he would (–did he?)
because of slow sense and the charm of his wit
I’m the meal and the victim, defeated in good
same clothes and the same smell but
its. not. You.
just a story, written as a poem about grieving hallucinations... maybe they're not hallucinations...
