Inside this firing line


This moment,
here,
the one crept up from behind the rear
view
drop kicked me
awake,
through my fate
finger painted by the child
inside my mind.

I notice some kind of
faded memory
biting
gnawing
nagging
severing
stealing real affections
serving left over predictions
of betrayal
and though my heart’s
overcooked and spoilt
the gorging is unavoidable now.
This is an echo of an ancient wound
personified by the depth of
love songs
sung from
across oceans of awareness,
blocked by the multitude of stars
failing their wishes
hidden in dark shadow of light.

But I won’t stop wishing
for You tonight.

Inside this firing line
the only witness
blind men who say everything’s just fine,
scraping rabidly behind their eyes
at the beauty of remembered connection.
Their writhing weeping a Truth of loneliness
in the middle of the night,
only rise with the fakery of lies
bought on credit.

My longing’s laughing at
these ridiculous tears
of imagined loss
searching the sky for God
screaming of my broken bones
burning like phantom pain.

I have no evidence of injury
only the memory of hearing my name
once called across our home
with Real
joy.

I’ll put my pen down here
with that sound
blissfully near
before I remember
just what it was I fear.

Mira Black
June 1st 4:09pm

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