By Arcassin Burnham

You could have been everything and anything I was always dreaming
Of but that stubborn attitude had it all misconstrued in so many ways that
I couldn't think,
When life was already bad enough , you just seemed to make it worse,
I think you were on the verge of meeting you another,
When I loved you first  , Adored you first , you were my first,

I Hate you even more everyday when your birthday comes, and as you
Smile and kiss another man , I hope your day comes,
When you finally realize that love will stab you in the back,
Everything you do to someone, it comes back, so remember that,
I'm glad I'm not there to tell you that,
I use to think of you as someone I came to when I got bullied,
You used me for all I was, you really thought you knew me.

Lavender and sage drift in waves of smoke
soft and subtle like your ebony hair flowing
through my fingers as my lips brushed yours.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and I gasp still-
fever overcoming shock as you touch me,
siren on land waiting for the tide to come in.

Once a hesitant explorer, meekly tracing your
beckoning curves and scars I now salivate-
wet with hunger to devour you inch by inch.

But we are little more than bleached bones,
memories grinding into dust with one foul move
blown away in the wind to feed new life.

I lit five candles
That’s all I had
I like to be close to small fires
It makes me reminisce about places I’ve never been
And think about those who are gone now
Gone against their will

I can look at a picture and make it about me
The silence in their faces
It leaves room for my imagination
I know what happened ten years later
But those silent faces only cared about today
They seem so sure about the moment
Comfort in the past is because you know how it ends

People put on their best side when a camera is near
It’s as if that is all that will be remembered
And not their fears and suffering
Or their mistakes
That’s why sometimes it seems those were the good old days
A mustered smile overcoming all that has happened
A knowing pensive wrinkle free shadow of youth
You can find so much to envy

We know where to find happiness
It’s always with a crowd
Communal
Mentally holding hands with our own kind
But what is our own kind?
The color of our skin?
The food we like to eat?
The places we like to visit?
The music we like to hear?

We fight against it so much
Is it so wrong to like certain things
It seems as if it is
Certain sounds
Certain faces
But that is what being free is about
Comfort in a field
Or on a mountain
Who is with you doesn’t really matter
Because who is there is like you anyway
Whatever their name

We know where to find happiness
It’s always being alone
With candles burning
Five candles
They burn not to hurt you
Only to find peace
To stare into a simple flame
And yet not understand its source
Is that not life itself?

I wondered what I might give for something
someone else dreams of at night; I’d rather know
what makes them think that way and not read
about the dark forces they believed to be real

There is a calm about the flour that covered the
baker; he is a man who has a craft, and whatever
he believes is in his hands; no matter if the story
was written last night or five hundred years ago

He is a part of the walls we pass each day; we
summon a smile for the moments he provides,
but he is the life, the life I want to know because
he does not wear a cape or walk with head bowed

Whatever they summon is made of candles, delusion
and the heart of a mushroom; what we read
comes alive in our minds because  the book is faded;
yet another language can seem just as mysterious

I wonder if worry drove them to this madness; I feel
the power that uncertainty  has in my life; it controls
the grandeur of my dreams for they are attached to the
solutions conspired against by my own weaknesses

But who can reshape the future yet live in poverty and
anonymity; it is the patron who believes in an idea
that can change the world; or maybe they just steal
the idea and pay someone else to write the myth

Would it make a difference if I could called it quicksilver
or mercury; probably not if we were dancing or if you
were crying; none of it mattered to them because what
their graves reveal is that we still don’t know how the feel

Nobody expects anything more than their own gifts can
deliver; the only one that matters is that it matters that
much; everything else is for an observer of life who wonders
why he is so ordinary and sunlight beneath the sea is not

Aimless.
Can thought run.
To nowhere.
Neither leading or following.
A stalemate has become the  norm.
What is real.
Inspecting that strange figure in the mirror.
Has grown tiresome.
For if there was any resemblance at one time.
What would be the point of validation.
Creating.
Driving.
Movement in general.
Is now a chore.
Does one keep smiling..
Even as these words come out.
Darkening the mind of each new reader.
Muscles move to form the desired action.
Each pair of eyes that look upon.
This mangled form.
Can see.
exactly.
what isn't.
Because of what was.
The stigma was born through the devious means projected.
Branded.
With pain and nostalgia.
Then in an instant.
It all fits grotesquely.
Perfect together.
What need is there for inspiration.
For all that was ever truly needed was imbued into the very soul.
Tempered solid through the years with torment and grief.
Sealed every crack and fracture that would come with anger and self preservation.
Weapons that were kept sharp and ready to use.
And now.
They etch their existence in any corner of the mind available.
Ready to take the next victim.
With.
Or without consent..

I have done a great deal of things.
In the name of nothing.
Self preservation.
Fickle is thou.
Yet jest through feats of strength.
As this convoluted mirage passes by..
So much blood has been split.
A multitude of coppery pennies in the mouth.
Can one wash out blood.
With more blood..
A question pulled upon.
With every strike of the hammer.
Can there still be salvation.
Redemption..
How is it that one can still look into the eyes of others.
And smile.
Knowing full well of the pollution inside.
Waiting to consume.
And spread.
How much longer can these staples hold.
Before they too will slip.
And unravel.

The smoke has yet to lift.
Giving the horizon a eerie feel.
The whistle of death has long since passed.
Even the thunder that lashed out so hungrily.
Has been subdued with the souls scoured.
Numerous holes are sporadically placed among the rubble.
Some are filled.
Like the contents of a blender set to mince.
I peer into the stagnant pool that collected in the smoldering depths.
Not even the earth seemed to want them.
The urge to dive in overtakes my senses.
And the remnant cries are getting stronger.
With every breathe does my mind crystalize.
Frozen in the moments that distort this rigid oasis of despair.
The need to return beckons.
Yet integration is nearly complete.
These arms have become strangers.
Just like the rest of this surrogate being.
The storm is coming.
But I remain.
Watching.
As the familiar figure takes its leave.
Grinning with every step.

The hesitant hand speaks through the white abyss beyond its dark eye.
Worlds are created here.
Excuses.
And words of love alike.
Men and women have died clutching and wrestling with this enigma.
The need to be understood.
What need is there when what is counveyed.
Was never captured at all.
Forcing more and more blackened guts onto a surface for criticism.
Only to claim the meat bellow grade and tossed away.
It's the output that heals.
That begins its torture like tools to ****** about the mind.
Plastering over more wallpaper with graffiti.
Trample over the art created to assume the role of the next tramplee.
Be humble yet there are no holds bared once the summit is in sight.
This cataclysm has taken enough of me.
And this righteous path.
Can only play granny for so much longer.
Before I too will grow fangs.
And tear this pointless paper to shreds.