I look at her and poison slips from my tongue-
Competition.
I smack my bubblegum in hopes that you can hear it across the room.
What does she have that I don’t?
A shield you pull out in unworthy discussions about...H E R.
You protect her as if she’s a wounded kitten found in a swampy sewer.
Disgust fills my empty veins as you inhale your menthol cloud.
All I can do is **** people with words, tongue ties, and depths of unknown worlds.
When all I wish you would tell her is:

I. Am. Done. Talking. To. You. About. Her.

Oh little bird with such sweet sound,
Why do you sit upon the ground,
When you could soar and flit and flutter,
And get away from all the clutter,
Which threatens peace and clouds the mind,
And deafens ears and makes eyes blind?

I hear you singing from your tree.
Your music seems to beckon me.
To fly would be a lovely thing,
To soar above on feathered wings,
To escape from that which plagues me so,
And chuckle at the ground below.

Alas, dear bird, it cannot be,
For I am bound by Gravity.

.
The forced tangent of life
became an adventure that lost
and so this shell sits on air
reflecting a balance of the cost.

There was an instant in time
where the physical held its sway,
pushing back the dark of years
and emerging into a sunny day.

But the blush of an eye moment
rebuilds a visage of ancients.
The turbulence of discord asserts
the demise and sin of patience.


© Pagan Paul (02/02/18)