#29 SIN CHRONICLES | RANDOM FREE VERSES

I

This is my word,
Sinners are going to ignore this;
All the things that you are
Under the very bright lights
Are shadows of what you could be.

What would you give
For this moment of life,
This opportunity to breathe and live?
You, under the spotlight,
Your moment being witnessed,
Your dreams being fulfilled.
It is only part luck, do you see?

II

The fever lifted my hips
From the seat to wriggle
Among the sweaty breath
Of tapping feet, switching places,
As the planet turned slow.

I tapped my feet and
Nodded my head as music
Stole through me, lighting
Every darkened space
Until the sun rose in my sky
And like a zombie I stumbled
To the bathroom for a piss.

See the man in charge,
Mixing beats like sweet soup,
Moving me to tears, to mutters.
I like to make believe
That I am asleep but I always
Explode and dance to this trembling,
Sonorous plea and let it sit with me.

There are verses within
And it is hard to see them fade
Like old letters, crumbling to dust
Like old buildings. It is hard
But goodbyes must come
And several have come and gone,
Like others before them.

Nothing is ever what it seems,
You know this, don't you?
It is hard to see that my breath
Is bursting out the seams
And music is calling me to Hades
But what is, is yet nothing truly is.

You ponder my words
And wonder at my temerity
But words are useless without
The meaning my innuendos give
And meanings are useless if
My message is not yours to take.
You see the futility?
You see the infinite senselessness
Of trying to save me?

III

I miss you like a drunken night,
Blind and dark, blurry and mad.
I miss the silence of music
Singing alone in my eardrum,
Whetting the edges of my poesy,
Cleansing my listless spirit of pain
For brief moments of ecstasy.

I miss your warm broken tears
On my lips, salty on my teeth.
Oh I miss your light on my skin,
Waking me from slumber,
Plucking my dreams apart
Like old love songs on lonely
Guitar strings twiddling of home.

I do not miss the fire of your eyes
Peering at me from broken mirrors
Showing splintered parts of me;
The saint, the sinner, the preacher,
The reprobate stealing truth
from the tongue of doubting lips.

I do not miss the limp fingers
Plucking the strings of my heart.
No effort, just a twang and am gone.
I do not like what I hate, the minister said
But his ministry is a cracked concrete,
An empty bottle, a sodden pack of
Cigarettes, old condoms,
The unwashed smell of old pain,
New sex and old tearstained pictures
Hanging from rotting crumbling walls.

Can I hold his words close
Or do I let them flee like leaking
Balloons seeking for space
In the empty morning sky?
I do not miss you.

©warpedpoetic, 2018.