Fugue

Sometimes we leave the things we like, but the things we like never leave us. We can't outrun who we are.

browsing old poems
in leather dust tomes
these tombstones i roam
welcome me home

weathered

like an old friend
good to see you again
the cosmic joke
is that you never left

the words in my veins
the blood on the page
the song stays the same
just let me refrain

no need to explain
we all speak the pain
whether plain or obscure
we pick at the burrs

tethered

the hollow laughter
of hallowed slathers
despite all my rage
i still turn the page

the skin tears with age
go digging within
my sinews abused
my senses renewed

from ashes and dust
lashes and lust
until shadows eclipsed
wisp from my lips

Author's Note

I hate this. It's too plain, too obvious, and it feels forced. I prefer my obscurity to flow in tightly braided arrangements that require several readings to fully understand. But my dormant account needs some fodder to prod me along.