October 12th, 1998: This is not an apology.

♐ ♐ ♐

Most days I feel like I’m underwater. It’s like a dream where I’m never dead, just not living. Because the living cannot feel this dead. I whither away into isolation singing sweet melodies of love and peace and hope and **** and loneliness. Most days I just smile.

I am a fake. I am a liar.

I am an incongruent youth; unable to be constrained by the freedom laces of society. Tie me down and watch me run, trickle, run like an avalanche down the face of conservatism. A cheap hotel ******: musk and sweat and suits and scandals. On-the-course-to AIDS infection loose ends who walks the streets in pristine filth. The incongruent youth, or what we in America call sick **** and shameful liars.

I am confused. Standing here on the edge between glamour and reality I scream into the nothingness, the watery void, a stark reality composed of my dark humor and evanescent solitaire: How can thunder roar so loud? Why am I part of this ambient isolation? How can you do this to me; to us? The beautiful few and we are beautiful, trust me, we are in the clouds searching for each other, beguiling and anonymous as we may be waltzing merrily through nighttime New York parks searching for rarities. For others. For God. And into the emptiness I whisper: Why is this park so big? And the trees so thick?

I am waiting for "someday." But this someday, this could be, this will be, would be, won't be for awhile. And this moment, this here, this now just passed. So let's look ahead and hope it gets better, because our lives are 1942 cattle cars riding away from the nows that just passed. Moments of incongruence on a grand scale. One night stands with our own hands and imaginations. Moments we thought we knew.

I am an inconvenience on the path to wholesale liberties. To children wrapped in barren barcodes that read “no real identity” when the red dash of judgement steamrolls their sides. God forbid the glamour mix with reality. Because when you are a somebody, you can never be a nobody. And nobody wants the incongruent youth to keep thinking. Because to think is to love. And nobody wants us to love.

This is an apology. I am sorry if I’m not what you meant for me to be. Terribly sorry if I love the wrong music or words or styles or *** is all I can think about. Sorry, but I can only love the beautiful few. I can only smile knowing I am a real somebody in all this hate.

Knowing I am a fake. I am a liar.

I am a human being. Hardly. I’m nothing but an incongruent youth.

incongruent
my heart and yours went,
with mine supposing importance
and yours subsisting in ignorance.

050915
for j.b.

I apologize as I dry her eyes
And I know that I'll never be enough for her
Two pieces from different puzzles
And I'm still puzzled how I ever found her
Incongruent, I ******* blew it
And I'm still trying to make sense of it all
I laugh, there's no number to call
And she's gone as I continue to fall

Happy days are numerous.

Continue to enjoy the limitless splendid days
until night falls.

Apologies for wrongdoings become comforts
for the poor and inconsolable.

Forever doubt the incongruity of jocular locutions
and reality
in order to truly find the blissful song of life

The still quiet of the empty apartment
serves to only echo the steady tapping
of rainwater dripping onto the concrete
just outside the window

Everything feels like it should be painted
by Picasso, during his blue period
in various shades of the clam, but icy color

The fact that it isn't
gives the soul a sense of nervous
displacement. All of these commonplace
colors and shapes feel foreign and surreal

The world seems like it should be frozen
in both the sense of stillness and temperature
but it’s not

A warm breeze is moving the bland, beige curtains
and that is more terrifying than any monster
that has never hidden under your bed

The rainwater still drips, and echoes
and nothing is wrong, out of place, or eerie
except that it should be

and so it is

So this is melancholy
That bittersweet taste every time
We part ways

That deepest sigh I always utter
Whenever your lips touch mine
Because I know in a second or two
You will be gone

I have never looked forward
To our meeting
For you have always
Left me breathless
And wanting

This is insanely foolish
And I know soon
I’m about to face my doom

But every time
Your fingers
Trickle my spine
Or your breath
Suffocates me
Or your taste
Numbs me…

I find myself
Completely giving in

Until your whole being
Inhibits my system
Slowly poisoning my veins
Until my blood ceases to flow
And my heart resists pumping

But there I go again
Poisoned from the reverie
Of you and me

The car engine starts
I know this is goodbye
So long then
Until the next confluence
Of our thirsty mundane
Incongruent lives

All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—

Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation

Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons

Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate

No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing

A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation

Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.

Even sensing
her presence, as
a wafting fragrance
makes me dense.
But I get as light
as a feather flying
gaily over hills
fueled by
self contentment
when I carry her
in my heart
day and night.

the dud man wanted a saint
but she failed his mean test
even after a faint and a feint
with a huge sigh he let it rest
took up his rucksack and left
she cast him  a long wistful look
her slumped pose the picture
of internal dejection and anguish
sharpened by an endless lament
that she'd not shown him his theft
of the aching heart of a  live woman
of vibrant flesh, blood and dreams
she longed to tell him straight
she was not an idea to be analysed
and later discarded like an abused rag
but the unkind distance engulfed him
even as the rays of the sinking sun
blended their gold with his yellow attire
thus she knew as of that unfeeling day
such mishaps were the very fabric of life

One thing I love to do
Is write letters to Grandpapa
Because
You never know where it’s going to take you:
Octogenarians are a real wildcard
And that makes life interesting.
For example, I was writing a letter
To Grandpapa and he likes to imagine things
Because he can’t get around much
So I give the cat meat to feed on.
I embellish a little my romantic situation
And I tell him about M; little M
How she reminds me of my little mama
And that boys tend to look
For someone who is like a mother figure
And we grow into this role
We become more dependent on the girlfriend
Til she becomes like a second mother
But it never starts out that way.
So I was telling him about little M;
And when I receive a letter back
I notice a rather odd sentence
That I cannot help but laugh at:
“Dan, you say M; is smaller than you
All the easier to back her into a corner”
And then it follows on with some
Incongruent sentence about ‘me driving a car’
Now I’m not sure if we got lost in
Translation
I don’t know whether Grandpapa is thinking
I’m going to run M; over (she’s not that small)
Or whether he’s suggesting I invest in a booster seat?
Or whether in fact, he has made an unwholesome
But wholey funny link
Between me staying up all night
And my young ****** prowess
(Which is the same thing I suppose)
But I’m not quite sure why I’d be backing her
Into a corner
That sounds like outright pressure
But I have to laugh
Ah Grandpapa
Maybe one day I’ll show M;
Or maybe not
She may develop an irrational fear
For tight spaces
Which is something
I will never have a problem with...

How strange it is...

to have one man star in your dreams,
and wake up next to another...

to have already slept in those cold apathetic arms and left them outstretched,
yet they are the ones that reach out from the gossamer void...

to have been shown love and warmth and awake next to him gladly,
but still feel the chill of the night inside your mind...

how strange it is...

to have control of your life back,
yet not control of your dreams...

Strength is the ability to protect yourself
Emotionally, physically, spiritually.
You are strong when you need no one
You are self-sufficient
The desire is there sans the need.
Acceptance of lacking in one area
Will allow you and behooves you to
Increase strength in another.
Because without strength you are vulnerable
To external forces.
Like newborn turtles as they make
The dangerous pilgrimage to water,
Picked off one by one,
By carnivorous, unforgiving animals:
People out to hurt others to falsely improve
Their own self-esteem.

Strength is the courage to challenge your fears
And make an about-face to run toward them
Not away.
This abrupt "180" seems incongruent to our
Beliefs, desires and thoughts
Because our subconscious mind proclaims
That to confront our apprehensions deems us
Weak.
And as naive beings, we listen wholeheartedly,
Believing that what we ignore does not exist
And we regress to an age when object impermanence
Unsettled our feelings of safety.

Without strength we cannot breathe, eat or think
And without fulfillment of these basic human needs
The question is, Do we really exist?
So we must define and develop our own strength
In order to thoroughly define and develop
Our sense of self.

******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.

On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!

Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.

Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of  no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.

A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?

Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.

Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.

Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause

and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:

apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.

Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.

Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,

googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,

gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting  upon the weightless walls

to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.

I’m not bitter in this depression. No, I am more thankful for what I have got, to cushion my fall from the bridge. It’s mostly fabrication, this depression – I know it. It comes from a half-lifetime of neurotic deities, spinning their indie white boy musings around as echoes in my head. I convinced myself that sorrow was the only way to feel the soul.

Some people take pills for their ills. They pop them like sugar cubes into their mouths – gaping at their daily escape to sanity. They heave sanity like a boulder each day, just to feign animation. Others will talk on and on about their issues, leaving the rest of us in blearing boredom; but at least they’re feeling okay. The remainders take to sweet surrender, nourishing panic attacks with red wine and ****** paintings.

Nothing matters anymore. Not the Damascus Road to scaly eyes and computer screens; or giving your life to spreadsheets for the boss with his eyes on your skirt. I see no God up in the sky now, as the adverts pollute the stars, and I see no science in all of this self-pity; as a white guy has very little to complain about.

Everyone is just a representation of a memory now. Each conversation feels like an abstraction from some ancient, fevered dream. They criss-cross my life in every decreasing patterns – old friends now nothing but a passing, reluctant nod. Family spin yarn around me, and let me laze on the couch, but never can I tell them of the places I have found myself in. Trust is blankness. I’ll give you all of it now, because there’s nothing left to hurt.

nascent clover all around
grass so green it burns the eyes.
sulfur pollen on everything
at slightest touch, it puffs and
blossoms into the soft still air
all the windchimes sounding
incongruent harmonies
carried on the warming breeze
all the lovely voices
in unison.

all the windchimes sounding incongruent harmonies in the warming breeze.

There's a problem here
Something's wrong
My mind... it's so... broken
My heart needing... longing
Yet this body... this flesh screams of excess
Healthy and full, it would seem
How incongruent
I think... I think I'd like to fix it.
I'd like to see the marks on my limbs
Where you've lacerated my heart
Over and over again
And I have to return for more
I want my body to fail
Like my mind did
Like I want to
I want to go weak
I don't want any strength to be left
I want it to be clear
I require aide!
As long as I'm standing
Strong and smiling
I will never get what I need
I will never be noticed
You'll never notice!

However...
If I weakened myself
Starved... overworked...
Maybe even drugged
My mind and body
Faltering together
As one...
I'd take a step
And I'd stagger
Weak, frail
Body failing
Stumbling forward
Giving out
Breaking down

You'd notice
You'd see

You cannot resurrect
Memories
That
Have wedged themselves between
The future and the past,
Yet are too fragile to
Exist within the present—
You cannot
Resurrect
The way you felt
(The way you felt invincible)
In remembering mannerisms that outlive
The moment.
You cannot reconcile
The heart's defiance,
Deliberately giving yourself to
A void not of your own,
Gathering gathering gathering
Sentiment and stitching it into
The fabric of your narrative,
When you should have
Gathered your senses in a pail
And lowered them down into a wishing well...
You cannot resurrect what never
Wholly, entirely, unconditionally
Existed without
Your warm breath
Encompassing it in meaning,
Feeding an emptiness not of your own making.
Yet,
You cannot escape it either;
So it lingers:
Your regrets, your self loathing, your incapacity
To accept that
There is no way to breathe life back into
Something that was dead before you
Pressed its surface with your fingers,
As if you, yourself could
Impose a pulse upon what you could not
Understand.

Understand this,
Time will not resurrect
That which you long for in the night,
It will not reconcile
The incongruent nature
Of desire:
To feel
To be numb
To hold on to
To understand
To forget
To destroy
To save

Save like a wilted flower pressed between
Two aged, yellowed pages: present only in its allusion to the past.
You do not wish the flower a different fate,
To fill its dried up veins with green, pulsating life,
To have it become what it once was.
You cannot reconcile the purpose of its carefully preserved petals.
You do not question its existence,
Question why it has been uprooted from the ground,
Why it has changed shapes while remaining a flower.
It was never meant to remain the way it was.
And so, it exists
As an indicator of what it once was,
As a reminder that it will never be again,
As memories do
When we press them down
Between the past and the future,
Until like the dried up flower,
They cease to change,
As we continue.

My condition is incongruent with the common presence
Black sheep identity burning eyes and hesitance
I move in a manner like weight attached lumbering
Unsure of myself, with no partner stumbling
Swimming in a glass half full and inattentive
Sloppy script pen tip like bull with red incentive
Reference to constructed concept subjective inference
Marker to my darker being written in this instance
Possessive and persuasive visitor leads me to temptation
Takes unpredictable control of my mental weather station
Precipitates with hate and tears me down with its erosion
Art starts with rain pain soon becomes an ocean
My breathing is done in desperate gasps
A fight for oxygen’s healing
Suddenly I am miles away
Far beyond the ceiling
Moving at the speed of light time slowing to a crawl
Cranium contained tragically between these walls
I wake to similar circumstances not changed to satisfaction
Expect a sedentary death from drone of human interaction
Hungry and reestablished, reminded now of morning
Clear mind and consequence come forth with no forewarning
Death lingers in the white noise that gestures from the mental
I open the gates to raiders as they pilfer sacred temple

We speak the explicit language of damage
Whether it's through anguish or famine
It only takes a little while to examine
Until we learn the language well
And eventually become fluent
To create this worldwide hell
Where the warfare is incongruent

We speak this language for many reasons
We speak this language through every season
The dialect varies from country to country
But all that really matters is who's hunting
The end result is the same
For damage done before
We inflict retributive pain
To even the damage score

Damage lowers our health
Damage increases their wealth
Damage puts us on the shelf
Until we damage ourself

The damage is done
So we must run
But at some point we turn around
Planting our feet into the ground
Becoming the damage cause
Doing what we've learned
We attribute this to our flaws
Not caring who gets burned

There is a damage sandwich
Within our damaged land's width
We're caught between being imposed on
And becoming oppressors
You're either forced to keep your clothes on
Or become an undresser
Perceptions of greater and lesser
Further complicate the scenario
We receive them through our stereo
To look down on those of other barrios
All of that damage can be parried though
If we work as a team
Better yet a species
To live in a utopian dream
Instead of our feces

I'm terrified that you
Are falling in love
With the idea of me,
That the masterpiece
Your mind has painted
Far surpasses the reality
Of its subject.

When you see each
Glaring imperfection,
The incongruent lines
That shape my body,
The speckled skin
That litters my frame,
Perhaps you'll realize that
This canvas was flawed all along.

Past the impressionist blur of color
So thickly laced with
Your dreams,
There am I,
A harsh form
Captured in still life.
An incomplete charcoal sketch.

It could be that
You've simply
Never been one for realism
And I'm just
"The Girl with a Pearl Earring"
When you always wanted
"Starry Night"

You are a brilliant patchwork of people
wearing their imperfections with pride
not ashamed to be different

Like a jagged concrete and glass tiara
surrounding an emerald heart
you are both lush and cold in synch

At once soothing and stimulating
is the rhythmic rocking of your subways
punctuated by the occasional discordant screech of metal on metal.

You are an assault of sight, smell, and sound on the senses,
each vying to be noticed by indifferent passers-by
artful store windows
pungent aromas from curb-side kiosks
and rap, rock, or classical
as performed by wandering minstrels

Where else can individuality be noticed
among the teeming masses
or the lofty and lowly stand side by side
without thought of social status?

Where else can one get lost in the crowd
yet still be an integral part of the whole
or be down
then uplifted by the energy of the streets?

New York City
you are where the impossible becomes inevitable
and incongruent parts
come together in a symphony of humanity and culture.

New York City
you inspire both love and hate
but never indifference!

Despite the remarks of David Hume,
I am quite aware of myself.
I can’t see my eyes but through them.

And every day, as different as the days may be,
Time passes through their lens
Time passes that is, for me.

Despite understanding fragmented reality,
I have to make decisions.
Seeing that all of being is quite remote,
The choices made are choices that affect one body, not many
I ‘m sure that’s me -
And I am passing.

But, and as the case may be,
Pieces here I come:
In me that is one; there is more than one,
For I don’t know the discrete emotion that you know,
The nudge you feel to move, to stay, to go, quietly.

Different parts all rule their nests,
They are young and intemperate –
And that reader, makes living somewhat unblessed.
Decisions by different rulers can be, it is thought
Incongruent.

Different times different monarchs with changing interests,
Crowns of petal, crowns of thorn, crowns of fire
Different crowns on different heads, but one.

One body, one person one identity,
I am ruled by many
And being ruled by many ruling me is hard.

We’re finally “together.”
It’s like a crash course on each other
After months of restraint I finally get to that “place” in you.
An intoxicating crash, our paths finally “collided”
And two human hearts beat fast,
With a relational feasting, a deepening
A seeping saturation with each other,
over-taking
And not realizing
A little scientific fact called:
Momentum.
We crashed and combined but could not stop and life has a way
Of moving you often and sadly,
People are intersections moved right through, because we all have
Different directions.
Courses connect and then somehow we just—
Well, it’s not that we forget.
It’s not even neglect
But a slow disparity collects
Whatever tugs us takes us and even if we don’t feel the pull
We feel the distance, when it’s full.
Our hearts are weak and light and we are flighty
And we don’t know when to fight
And even if we don’t mean to flee
People leave. It happens
See,
The way I saw it
Parallel was a pain.
Moving along the same course but never any collision, only frustration
Separate lines never meeting at a glorious point we could call us.
I said, better to have loved and lost
Than to love and love and love and never get there,
As if love is a destination.
But people don’t come with a “finish line”
There are no simple lines in love.
Nothing is straight--
We are fluid and incongruent
And swung by each other’s shifting weight.
Because, momentum keeps us moving and that movement is often claimed
By another little scientific fact called:
Entropy.
But if something huge
Something really huge that will not fail moves us then that means
It will not sway us.
It draws us not to each other, but to something much bigger, a much better “somewhere”
Then that little point us.
And when we’re both drawn to the same place
By the same force,
When we’re on the same course
Not as finish lines for each other
But as runners in the same race
As evidences of the same magnetic tug we try to trust
Too weak to be faithful satellites of each other
But revolving around the same one--
Then we’re truly together.

Hands,
Brown, slender, strong
Are not the ones that caress me

Hair,
Dark, curly, boyish
Is not the kind I smooth

Eyes,
Deep, earnest, yearning
Are not the ones I wake to

One half the sentiment is there
But the dreams--
Vivid, honest, longing--
Are not what greet me with the day

What on earth do I do with that?

Jan folded the letter
running a finger
along its crease.

She looked up-
someone  was
explaining functionality
€‹She stared at
the new argument
€on the white board

then returned to the letter-
the fold
the plane
pressing and creasing
vertices meeting
corners peaking.

Sighing:

His orientation obvious,
they were now mismatched.
Incongruent
she rose
and left the room.
There would be many such
lessons.

Tommy Carroll
redrafted

By: Cedric McClester

We have a crisis
When the savages of ISIS
Blow up antiquities
And summarily lay siege
To Syria’s ancient ruins
Which is totally incongruent
With the Prophet’s example
Which is recorded and ample

It’s a travesty and a shame
What they do in Islam’s name
Because it’s not reflective of
The religion of peace and love
And the hatred that they fuel
Havin’ broken every rule
So it’s open to debate
If their end game is the caliphate

Al Baghdadi proselytizes
While his true mission he disguises
On the ground are lots of boots
That’s comprised of old and new recruits
As Syria and Iraq get hotter
They’re like lambs being led to slaughter
And many more nitwits he’ll find
Who tune into him on line

Soon they will discover
It’s not one thing it’s the other
And the women can’t escape
From the drudgery and ****
And the men overworked and underpaid
For the devil’s bargain that they made
See they’re all going straight to hell
In a handbasket can’t you tell














Cedric McClester, Copyright ©  2014.  All rights reserved.

Bleakest drape inescapence.
Impertinent involuscence.
Stemming from a copulent.
Incongruent malocculent.

Plead among no relent.
Populate incompetent.
Unvaried fraudulence.
Clarity accomplishments.

In foggy eyes, the view reset.
Across the smoke, a sober fret.
A mind that rose from utter death.
Again to draw, refreshing breath.

Older than a bat
I saw you in the stars
Following your heart
All the way back home
From all the bars you visited
You compare congratulations
To incongruent vacations
You sedate the understated
In anesthetic vacations
Vagitus vulgaris
Common among ****-sapiens
In silent reverie
We are speaking
To all the Goddesses at once
In silent memories
We are treasuring
Each of these precious moments
With gratitude and space
We faced our elemental being
Who never needs to chase
Or hustle to receive Her grace
Om Namah Shivaya
Om Shivaya Namaha
We are fundamental particles
Held together by invisible strings
These scalar waves of pressure
Are infinitely stronger and subtler
Than a thousand waterfalls
Gravity is our mother
And we no longer struggle
To stand up or down
We pack it in and out
As hymns of love
Grow in our frames
We straighten our spines
For it often takes more
Than ten thousand years
And millions upon millions
Of men, women and children
And perhaps a few billion
Unnecessary deaths
Or a trillion unsuccessful attempts
To complete the naming
Of all the many beings
Inhabiting the earth and stars
Which collectively comprise
The universe's heart
She sings, long live the king
For life is a marvelous thing
Still we are all a little off course
In developing mental health strategies
That actually do
What they're supposed to
For each and every single species
Is only half as radiant
And usually twice as complacent
As any shade-giving or fruit-bearing tree
These sediments are indeed sentimental
And all these fallen feathers
Speak only to living beings
Who fly on tiny wings of freedom
Your kind blue eyes
Blink twice as fast as mine
And disguise all your pretenses
Fingers often keep time
And finders keep rubies
Losers weep emeralds in glorious grieving
But can anybody tell me who the f@#!
Are all these pseudo-teachers
That sell you their minds so cheaply
If buying time is a waste of money
Then meretricious attorneys
Bleed you of your dignity
Currently it is only in dying
That we see no need to speak
While our currency is evolving
We are solely imitations
Of our inimical engines of digestion
As sedentary wives
Remain tied to triumphant spines
Shining like a pestilence
Atrophying like elephants at a circus
Their bodies and minds imprisoned
And bound by imaginary stakes in the dirt
Young prisoners in solitary confinement
Are hiding mental gems
And emotional diamonds
In lonely shipping containers
For you to polish and find
Like two lovers intertwined
I can guide myself despite your lies
I resolve to see
All corrupt lawyers go blind
While many more are voluntarily buried
Beneath their own illegal fantasies/histories
And bureaucratic guidelines
While in the depth of night
She yields to no-one
And only kind words
Can heal these enemies

As the cold breath of winter screamed,
We fell apart to be redeemed,
Then rebuilt silence through subtraction,
With the blinding speed of our inaction,
Still seeking peace in our own skin,
While dying to be young again,
As we tiptoed in our father’s shoes
And gave more than we had to lose,
We fought the fire behind our eyes,
With each incongruent compromise,
In the warmth of illuminated refrain,
And the remnants where we still remain,
Praying empathy breeds chain reactions,
Or that love can multiply these fractions,
But it’s more than we can hope tonight,
At least until summer sings its blinding light.

Traces of pawprints align and accumulate amongst the snow
The dusk casts the dawn away and tended their corpse
A vicious sound emanating, rusing the serenity of the twilight

"Papa, will you be home tonight?"
"Will you be carrying the candles again?"
"Will you stay with us tonight?"

Perpending echoes of the penumbra when the moon,
obscures, the darkened ceiling.

Slits of dim candlelight seep past the surface, a ****** demise
Crimson seeping, bubbled wine, creasing the remnants of the promise
My dearest, sweetest, purest child,
Amongst the veils of fireflies, the canids prowl through the streets
A deceitful parade amongst the illusion exposed,
The peaceful tracts are no more - I was struck.

The canids howl a sonorous melody, riveting, disconcerting harmonies
On the brink of the dying night, in a universe we brought so forth

The lingering of the slivers of silver shining,
the paradox of incongruent paths intertwining,
For each flame ceases in a communal suicide, the wolves stalk the solemn night.
The philosophy that was taught for generations and beyond,
It existed no more.

Beyond the blanket of hope and comfort, the warm amber rises
Stroking the pack, exuviating their hollow molt.

I was stranded here, on the island of scarlet
Roses floundering, thousands of rotten corpses
Fragrant luscious decadence, like candy to efflorescence
Floundering petals in hues of auburn and gold
Diluting to pallid gore.

"I will be home tonight"
"Smiling amongst the candlelight"
"For your dearest smile I recollected..."

"... and bled out once more"