Combed glass shores

sometimes, you will find things that were not meant to be uncovered TW: dark thoughts

In effigy
Speaking doors cry with the wind
Blowing through empty frames
Inviting itself through cracks and corners
The dancing begins, stressing boards
Creating sound for none to hear
A voice on the wind calls the names of them
Those easily entwined with branches
Calling them down to the lagoon
Where the buoyancy is as high as mortality
Only one boar is roped to the dock
For thirty-one twenty-fifths drown, up
Palms red with sweet juice
Those were not huckleberries
Everything is slow now
By the boat lies a glowing par
Luring with its captivating aura
Tempting and drawing down to disaster
But if the other side is reached
A grey slab awaits
Ready for any name
Ready to consume
Ended with two words
Because the body could never be found

Slip
Walking a trail through the woods
The legs know what the mind does not
Better than a cage, but not free
Woefully imprisoned by rusted wire
Stumbling, stained through wet clay
The unknot only tightens with retaliation
Mummified faces and blocked airways
Hang as baubles from the pines
Over the river on a fallen trunk
Sliding and tearing skin
The current threatens limbs
Water teasing fate and determination
Rising and flooding and pulling
Balancing temptations of rest
The fingertips slacken their grip
Pushed under by the raging weights
Sound evaporating to connect
Fibers of being attracted to polar molecules
The trees can taunt no more
Rest is achieved, at a cost
The rocks will soon break
And become a new current

Capturing moments
Film feels realer than flax fields
Characters creating genuine committed connections
Hearts having more healthful happenings
Scenes seeming as if sparks soar
People portray more potent passion
Recorded reality trumps realized reactions
Experienced existence can never even end
Interpretations intersect much important information
But, bitterly, one must come burdened, back
From finding what always feels fine
Then they must be thus, there

A wall that breaks
what still remains to separate?
something is keeping me from death
from peace
from completion

who holds the other end?
enslaving me to complete my days
stuck here
falling quickly

why do I remain so illusionary?
there would be no difference
if my body
matched my mind

why do I appear to live?
if nothing backs that thought
I exist
in my inexistence

when will the walls crumble?
leaving not even a foundation
destroyed
by fire

Zombified scarecrows
frantically scratching at the walls
running and screaming to consume
perhaps not looking for brains
but for something to distract
fingers flying, watching
undoing the done and
erasing marks until the paper rips
finding and searching and ripping
breaking and snapping and tearing
wearing out the soles of shoes
calling out for something to contain
find a container before the gas escapes
and dissipates throughout the field
the compass has been tampered with
and the roots are transforming into snakes
grabbing at the ankles and biting
ruining everything with one existent thought
whoever decided the words
were not fully aware of descriptions
the disease of thinking, of feeling
the disease of consuming, racing
to find something to compress
to strangle, to finally stop
if it stops the breathing, what else
if it stops the blood flow, at least it finally
stops
nothing will ever stop
if continuing to be swaddled
by damp towels and shredded grass
the holes in straw are not large enough

Shadowed ray tubes
Perhaps ideas were truly expendable
Years of cutting down trees
To deprive an ecosystem of life
Years of drawing faces
To run out of charcoal

Perhaps art will be forgotten
People have seen enough sunsets
Climbed enough mountains
Visited enough places
Consumed enough

Piles of finite paintings
Will have collected infinite dust
Cardinal sizes of comparative collections
Will be left for the insects
Like frayed attic curtains

Perhaps creation will become exclusive
As contemporaneity dissolves expression
And industrialization trumps ingenuity
Metal replaced with glass
Straightening molded corners

Ice can never be renewed
Though glass may return to sand
Irreversible ink stains should be considered
If there are so many who are willing
To be preserved by silica