Because you slay me with every pinnacle of triumph and ruin, oh mechanics. You rewind, even in progression; you tell me all the words to say, in which sheet set to lay. You hold my severed head on display, for the entire universe to witness.
And my demons are like butter knives, not sharp enough to draw blood, but that still doesn’t stop the hurt. Or, worse.
Spent summers beneath the trees, winters beneath the weathers, years amongst all that which I will never understand. So, when you gave me your hand, I said ‘aye’, for I was never sure anyone would want to realistically be mine, never convinced my tiny heart was anywhere somebody could draw their line and say “Stop. You don’t have to say a word.”
As good as asleep in the crowds and mobs and downward cast eyes, three abreast in some channelled breeze, the main streets are the ones that mostly step on the tender part of your foot.
You know where I am, though, at least in body. There’s always the mind which never follows, which instead chooses to wallow in ‘what-if’s, vague references to reverence at its darkest moments. Because blind faith will get you nowhere and I have no reason to believe in anything, save the fact that I have this idea in the back of the recesses of my most null-set mind; and did you let the angels tell you lies?
That you’re not coming home tonight?
Well, you could rest in these sheets of mine. I guess they’re not the best, but I won’t tell any lies. So don’t
cry, don’t cry. The saline runs through all the gears in my chest, and over the season you’ll keep pulling what’s left, ‘til all I have is not an ounce of this mess, this beating arrhythmia I try hold dear ‘twixt my ribs.
So call me accountable, I can shoulder the blame. And ‘cause I’m never quite sure if anyone else would want to do the same, all I ask is that you remember my words anytime you hear my small name; just remember my lips and love of rain.
For some god built me on plans it kept locked up for so long, as it never did quite figure out where it went wrong; and so now flows through my lips as I utter my songs, as penance for all moments in which I am never strong.
So I keep confessions locked inside my book, I keep its wry disregard at length of arm’s crook, the broken blood carriers and my eyes it shook, said “Son, don’t you worry, for today you are your own hook” I replied: “Oh, wonder and majesty, I’ve done you oh-so wrong, and for what? The sake of singing sad songs?” “I knew there was no answer before you came along, I knew not of your virtues nor the day, eternally long.”
So, don’t you dare take not a single of my words, for whatever I call mine is already gone to the birds,
to the birds,
to the birds.
Oldish, semi-rewritten.