Black Star Battle Action With the Kung-Fu Grip

The windows pain me

when I'm drained on the floor

looking for the picture of you I hid

and swore not to see again,


Rigid fingers up my spine

the nails freshly coated

provide that acrylic touch

we both know so well,


The seasons have passed slow haven't they?

Seasons of sore losers

bitter about that one defeat,

Brash and unarmed


I'm worth all the time you got,

if the clock runs out

we'll find out

if I was right, wrong, or the latter


We're two briefcases

latched under lock and key

bright gold where you grasp

wrapped in leather's sheath


Give me every inch of you

When I'm told real estate

is the only thing in this world that lasts

longer than the investment


Save me from myself

when I'm held hostage

at the end of a ball point pen

scribbling into the stratus


Were we nothing

the both of us would cancel out

into something,

The math elite demand tribute


I'm a wish on a black star

you never intended on

just shy of the brightest

Stealing those dead dreams


Another countdown till concrete,

the wet rock settles soon

so press hard for the nearly impressed

like back then in young years, concerned


Fluid contained in our bodies

always came when needed,

bones popping,

Tear ducts leaking by the absence


Late into the late, the floors creaked

and I saw you in a dim lit door way

Completely perfect

Hair done up and clothes neat


If memory serves it's master (and it should)

I'll remember the best parts

so this clock work heart keeps its tick,

Loving what will wait for it


The taste is a lesser distraction

something natural when it hit the surface

but a sense of correctness despite it all,

God bless that contact


The cheap hits swelled well

since inflammation kept me from poking about,

I healed in time

but the scars are on display


People can see me

and it's not all bad

but they can see my hesitation

and why I'm paused for the applause









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allets's picture

" hit the surface..."

and the depth, and the shallows, and the subdermal layer where the oil of art grows - Nice lost love poem, memory master - Just Bein' Stella