Unfound

I.

Unfound, unknown, these faces,
under veils of failing revolutions,
unfound, undead, but dying all the while,
for reasons, for treasons, that ring unworthy.

Such small hands, like roses,
spreading petals over cozy surfaces,
except their oh-so-delicate petals tend
to crunch, to crack,
when someone plucks them off.

More than carbon and chemicals,
more than buttercups and marigolds;
we salute a crashing sun.

II.

You’ll never find me, I’ve hidden
so deep in the intricate night,
under tussled clouds, eclipsing the
moon and rendering you blind
from the beat, the pulse,
that sounds just like yours—
just like the breath that escapes
your cracked lips as you pour
a mighty flame down upon our skin
and bone, leaving nothing more
beneath the Kissing moon
but mounds of ash and snapped
fingertips.

III.

Two men seated in a café;
coupled red glasses, one glistens,
the other—it tips…

IV.

I’ve seen the shipwrecks
anchored to the floor,
the tumbleweeds crowded
in a single sullen stall.

I’ve seen the machines
scattered along the road,
and the crumbling leaves
at the end of Fall.

All this, written
in the fogged windows
of your soul.

I would shatter
my own
to erase the
deed.

V.

Top-popping, rises to the head,
down, down, down,
walk the line my son,
walk it straight.

VI.

A solemn snow sets on weary branches,
begging weight on bending, worn arms;
so deep the roots have grown, so strong,
anchoring its heart from the winter storms.

Suppress the cold, resist the old;
the core is stronger
than I could ever hope.

‘Til standing oaks bend to knavish blades,
and all that’s left shall flicker away.

V.

Unfound, again, for years its been,
like this, and weapons get bigger,
as they get smaller,
and life goes on, another dawn,
another chance to die before dusk sets in.

Unfound, unnamed,
a choking rabbit in a,
dreary August pasture,
shaken, confounded,
steeled against hoof beats,
and mastication,
in earthly gestations,
that double as a tomb.

And we have known, for oh so long,
but their red blood just doesn’t belong,
and we have known, for oh so long,
but somehow they just don’t belong.

Would you come, all you weary?
(Lay down your arms, let sleep take hold.)
Would you come, all you weary?
(Lend me your hearts, I’ll offer my soul.)

And their blackened lungs would exhale this weight,
a tinged, grey powder, a poison laying waste,
to everything;
so, I’ll water it and drink the mix
‘til not a drop remains,
sound and
unfound,

except by me…