the whole story.

this is a story/collection about growing, changing, grief, and fear.

"the beginning"

what were your last words?
were they words of fear,
love,
were you alone?

i tried recreating you,
using assorted wires and bits.
what i saw,
in my own image.

i fed you, the static.
your soul,
lifetimes of information.

your skin though metallic
and barren.
carries the same warmth.

"would i even realize?"

i catch my eyes
in the reflection
of old scissor blades.
those dreadful eyes,

the only thing that i can never change.

how long has it been,
since ive worn thin?
the scissors once an idol,
now shining,

as a representative of him.

greens slice through,
any semblance of self.
the eyes on those blades,
were never mine.

to look down at our hands,

is an acceptance of fate.
no, we can't have that.
what did i used to say?
"an eye for an eye,"

what stupid words.

oh those dreadful eyes,
blindness is my only resort.

"angel"

your breath,
amongst the wavelengths.
an ectopic echo
haunting, reminiscing.

radio concertos turn to fuzz.
a dreadful static,
every voice, feeling,
resonating all at one.

beyond, you lie.
a forgotten audience,
guided by the 4625.
ill find you.

"security coffin"

digging, and digging
and digging.
as the bell sings,
melancholic tidings.
                                

soil encrusting my hands,
my eyes.
was i always this blind?
im sure i saw his eyes.
 

among the bones and the mud
a semblance of something,
anything.
your shallow breath.
                                 

digging, and digging.
instinctually, primitively.
the ringing's gone,
yet i remain.

"in which the boy confides"

it starts with a boy,
longing for the tide.
asking if it was just a ploy,
was it worth his pride?
                                
he stares solemnly, at the moon.
waves whisper their despondent sorrows.
and a mournful reflection,
casts itself over the shadows.
    
"you seem lost here?"
asks a hermit, a stranger.
"i stare towards my future."
is all the boy could murmur.
       
"you're staring at the end of the world,
there is nothing beyond that edge"
it seemed the stranger knew.
his legs sodden, raggedy his breath.
              
the boy wished, with everything.
to step into the sea.
but no one was there,
to catch if he sinks.
                               
the stranger is gone,
but his voice sorrowfully resides.
"you were bound to sink,
you were always the tide."

"the hermits speech"

oh child, born of the sea.
a tide of loss, love, the want and need.
overwhelmed one, heart of gold.
the songs of hope who'll never be told.

they sing stories of you,
the rivers and creeks.
from the depths of my ankles,
i see from where they speak.

beyond the storms, their rapids divine.
beyond the stars,
beyond the end.
each story destined to relive time.

sweet forgotten one, your sorrow on show.
your home speaks fondly of you,
"oh how you've loved, how you've grown."

they sing, each arroyo weeps.

"think about me once in a while"

down the rabbit hole

once again

to remember what we lost

to change the cards given

and i will go somewhere

that only i would know

to lovingly watch

something forgotten long ago

i met that boy

so many years in the past

filled with hope and wanderlust

playing in the riverbeds

i watched from outside

his gazing sightlines

as he stacked stones

and drifting branches

with his ankles submerged

he built a dam

to slow those memories

a god, he built with those hands

the water would seep

you cant quite stop the flow

to him it didnt matter

he was there to let it go

the dam, built with loving hands

was to show his solemn audience(me)

that you cant stop the flow

we lock gaze, he always knew

he wonders where the escaped waters go

but with a sorrowful glance

he stays behind

choosing the rabbit hole

"im sorry, i tried."

i know you're here,
somewhere.
maybe sound asleep,
did we ever dream?
                          
and i'm sorry,
for everything you've seen.
you're just as scared,
as when we were thirteen.
                                     
we aren't young anymore.
there's no rivers and mud.
you were left there,
so you didn't end up like us.
   
when winter came,
i tried to cover you up.
protect whatever we were.
whatever once was.
 
now you're here,
and i can feel your disgust.
in the end its just us,
because just me isn't enough.
        
our total demise,
i'm past the last crutch.
with you at the trigger,

i pray that you'll finally feel loved.

"dont talk to the child inside"

i know who i speak to
about my regrets, my insights.
and he listens,
still holding,

that cursed knife.

we've done this before.
time, and time, and time again.
he wants to rip through his tomb,
i just,

dont want to die.

he was before me,
in my bed of thorns.
i had to see,
whatever,

he didnt believe.

he inches closer,
day, by day.
he brought me here,
im aware,

its his life.

but with that knife,
who ruined our life.
knowing it hurts me too.
i will fade,

before i realized.

"he realizes"

i think its the end now.
im completely aware
of this roadside ditch, i call my grave.
above this cold dirt,

on which i lay.

no final glory.
just a quiet snuff,
then everything changed.
except him,

he knows my name.

forever backwards.
stuck, my gaze. it seems if
i was always this way.
i wasn't,

he watched me fade.

he told me to love myself,
to define what's true.
it seems his love
killed me,

he will consume.

"in which the boy remains"

a solemn procession
no parades,
just walking,
towards where it began.

i followed it for what seemed
miles; years.
and with nimble hands,
id take fallen tears.

i built a collection,
of all the sorts and goodbyes.
id keep them,
in their comfort id reside.

forever, we spent walking.
the oxbows, left in the wake,
of his funeral procession.

walking alone, only i aware of his fate.

far ahead,

in the distance.

i see a hermit;

a whisper, from beyond the tides.

"the boys return"

it seems

there's a storm again.

brewing above,

the world is restless.

                               

under a bridge,

peacefully sleeps the hermit.

the grass and the ferns,

provide him the perfect bedding.

          

comfortable, he waits out the storm.

                

"o wanderer, o wanderer. your wisdom please,"

screeches a boy.

but a rainy patter,

insures the hermits sleep.

                      

"i must know, i mourn my fate."

again the boy cries.

yet the hermit persists,

lost in green lands of what if.

           

shivering the boy looks to the creek.

            

"far from home wandering one?'

it croaks with a sense of empathy.

its waters a force,

beyond love and time.

     

"i find solace in the sea,

 im done walking.

my feet treaded"

in which the boy speaks.

     

the flow pauses, as if taking a breath.

"follow the brooks.

 let the old man sleep,

he brought you here."

its the truth the water speaks.

           

the boy visibly upset,

the rain was never his plight.

"I wish to know, atleast what's right,"

the boy screams into the thick fog of tomorrow.

                              

but not a soul could hear.

   

"the water resides, do you remember his time?"

asks the creek, the water turbulent.

the boy is out of time.

from the depth of his speech was something.

                         

"i remember the world, always lost in its-"

Reviews

[Red Brick Keshner]

Now this is a poem that is a tale that deserves a good soak 🛁 in🙏🏻🕊

[barf]

the narration of grief is surreal here, cherished every word i read. this is great writing Everett!

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

this is a powerful narrative, and works really well as a poem. a great exploraton of grief, the way it seems to change in form day by day, day by day. at first, from the title, i thought this may be the end of the road, that is, you have overcome this grief. the ending hints that maybe this i not "the whole story," that the story continues the grief continues beyond the page. as i'm currently going through grief, this poem resonated with me a lot. that said, i really liked the personae that appear, especially the hermit.

[Davidgeo]

I still haven't finished reading this... it's going to take me at least two more sessions. That's not a bad thing though. Maybe later when I finish it but... Jesus f*****g Christ that's going to take a week.

It's not a good idea to write poetry of this length all at once. Break it up, more people will read it. Very few of my fellow clown show clowns here read anything that takes more than 5 minutes.