Breathe (spoken word)

Your breath’s
a little strained,
foggily moves through
a strange new room
with your last cigarette.
Wisps of ragged imagination
your calling
to disclose
to testify
and midnights’ morphine melt your dreams.
A familiar pulse pushing
as you’re drawn in
by fresh compositions
whispering for a revolution.
The craving caught in your throat
just who do you think you are?
Questions of worth
(flown south)
solidify unkind letters
demanding you toss and turn inside
the unknown.
Rusted trust bruising valence.
Words of love, topple tarot towers
trapping trigger happy memories of
the one who broke you
tore you
left for dead
then stitched again
in a misty afternoon rain.
Misguided horripilations awaken
shaking the frantic monkeys scaring your back
as they chew on these discussions
of majestic visions
tucked in a too small trunk
bursting to be seen.
You’ve been trapped in a room full of clowns with guns
pretending they’re sane
as the bullets are reloaded.
The tales re told by a jealous noms de guerre.
A mute wordsmith burdened with
the festering wounds of a father,
called to the edge of sanity,
walled in maternal vanity,
climbing the bars of your sisters crib
to remember what it feels like to be safe.
into the knowing of true Love
as a rush of inspiration
re awaken
an ancient wish
which warm a wicked winter wind
like a holiday gift could
like being spooned by your best friend should
like the taste of a first kiss
on this impatient valentine.
Let these fists unclench
crimson ink on cream sheets
deleting the rules of Their game.
Who are They anyway?
Projected reflections
of those with ill intentions
who make decisions on
altered conditions,
warped by the brush of time.
Happiness feels
like the sudden joy in a summer game,
won just as sycophantic players
jeer your name
and dare you to take
soon found frozen in a purple dawn
waiting to exhale
through smouldering
ideas veiled,
choked by years of
wanting but not doing something more.

Mira Black

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