Weight.

Loose Ends tied up in noose knots
parting shots
from a gallows epilogue
place your periods dot your i's
a man dies
a criminal, punished
A deed done and finished
If a then b then b will see
his last meal, final day
his dying breath, with no say
in his final judgement
in ground or above
though the latter is more comfortable for us
to talk about
around our kitchen tables
around our children
around ourselves
a round reason, a plastic label says
it's right because it's right
all things have a season, yes
we love and fight and kill and love and fight and

one man hangs
for a sin that isn't his
and with his dying pangs
he's convinced that it is
he expires with a sigh
humanity smiles and moves on
he fertilizes the ground
that is now your front lawn.
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Fall Asleep, Fall Awake
It's the same, Either way.

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Forwarded love letters, blocked by spam filters
I'm sick of recycled affection!
this attempt at attention is tiring at best
at worst its not much better

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FREESTYLE GO:

We hold hands and walk through a dense forest and things are becoming a bit darker and things seem a bit more real than when we first plotted them out on that post-it in the kitchen earlier today. Those yellow lines that we used to keep our words straight aren't available now so the situation has just become a lot more confusing. Roads diverge and we're not sure which one to follow, We both try to let the other lead to no avail, because in following eachother we just walk in circles. You give in and let me let you lead me where you want. I follow you on the left path, through brush and branches. The canopy is thicker still, but I hold on to your hand. You keep going faster forward and I ask you to slow down... I suggest that maybe this isn't where we should be, that maybe we should turn around... But alas, I let us come here, yes? I let you take me here. Faster still. I'm nearly being dragged, my legs and feet still going through the motions halfheartedly. You trudge on, groaning from the dead weight that I've become. We come to a clearing and you turn to me for the first time in... minutes? Hours? What does it matter? You look alive, happy even. But you don't look like you did when we left the kitchen.

I let go of your hand.

You scold me. You tell me not to do that, you tell me to hold on, you tell me that it really hurts you when I let my feet drag. I apologize, I feel faulted. I allow you to grab my hand. There is a comfort in it. There always has been.

And yet my fatigue worsens as we move on, I find myself dragging again. I feel cold and unfamiliar. You seem to know these woods, you seem to breathe them in, becoming them. Your eyes aren't the same when you glance back. You don't look maligned, just changed. You are not rabid, merely ambitious.

I let go of your hand.

You turn, and instead of anger, I see nothing but sadness in your eyes. you want so badly for me to pick up my feet, for me to enjoy this with you, for me to breathe in this wild frontier with the same fervor as you. we embrace, but you let go quickly and formally. You point to your left, trying to avoid what must ultimately be said.

Your path lies east of here, you say. Your eyes well up. Those eyes that still have a sliver of what I saw in them this morning. It's the same sense of adventure. But that adventure no longer includes me. Tears.

This is what is best. I will go east, and you go north.

I walk away, I don't look back.

You're not behind me anymore.

You're not anywhere anymore.

Only what you've become. And that walks north.

I will see you at the next fork. I hope we will recognize one another, for if not, you may pass me by.

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The moral compass is the hardest one to read and the easiest to become disoriented with.

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