Tale So Old



Cravings that can’t be sated,

Itches that can’t be scratched.

Subconsciously searching


                                                                   Demanding the bloom of bliss

                                                                                                                          The blossoming at the core

Why is it a crime to reach for what you want?



Voicing objections of motive:

“For thou art pure and pristine”

But “thees” and “thous” and “thines” mean nothing now!

They ring empty; hollow like a fresh grave below my feet.

An ideal still believed, but only practiced in song and tale.

White feathers have been dipped in ink;

They glow in the sun

All the while hiding the stains

                                                         The smudges

                                                                                     The crooked veins injecting darkness into the plumes


What is worse: crafting the lie or believing it?


Each night, a feather darkened.

Each morning, one lost.


Two souls cracked



One with a vision-swimming, head-spinning, 2-plus-2-is-sky mentality

Struggling to stand, to put one foot in front of the other, to keep eyes open

The other in a life raft attached to fading memories of an extinct past

Struggling to breathe, to smile, to continue living

They took advantage of each other’s




Yet still the itch cannot be scratched,

Still the feathers continue to darken

To a color colder and more isolated than the midnight sky.

One question still remains:

If we were both victims,

Which one of us is to blame?


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