There was once a time when my wife
would have made a fuss over my nails,
nagged me to scrape the dirt underneath
until I was presentable to guests.

But that was a long time ago,
back when my wife was still in my life,
and not a memory distorting mindwaves.

Now the only guests I am able to endure
are the vultures impersonating Death’s halo;
enhanced in a game of waiting the other out,
determined to last until the other cracks.

The dirt under my fingernails worry me;
ponderings of how long they will remain,
and if I will ever clean them at all,
actions depending solely on
the annoyances of a lost void.

Where are you?

growing closer to where asking questions is cancer waiting for an answer.  essays, and mindwaves, and backspins, and moon rays.  Eyes above my mind, but it’s the truth now that makes me blind.  and all the pathways i can’t find because somehow they have left me far behind.

the density that carries my mind, like lead floating on air: casually undefined.  but there exists a lie i’ve told a truth behind - told in fast forward but experienced in rewind.  the fluids become ink and words against your spine, while worlds reroute and minds align.  it becomes a certain sign that the best hand is held by time - who rewrites headlines that forget to remind the stock dialogue for the witness of the crime.  back again, past enemy lines, at least we have explosives we can hide behind.

so remember those who will perish
  
in the war and all the truths that
    
they died for

but it was the only way
  
really,
to even the score.