Stories of Historicide

The winds of change upon him
like water aiming for
the brims of broken cups.

How we yearn to
drop something fragile
and be privileged to pick it up

a single piece.

As rips are
to denim jeans, as
lapses are to
sworn celibacy,
and as cracks in the bellowing voice
that follows me gentle
terrain
to tundra,

feasting on words I do not utter

not about the man I am not
but the man
I can’t be,
not the pieces that have clung
to sickened skin through thick
and thin but
the flesh that
has abandoned me.

Canonically speaking,
my history is still an
anatomically correct
being- were it
not
methodically
bleeding me out beyond
the shadow of a doubt,

we might have
been brothers and
family, forged friendships
that warmed us in spite
of winter winds.

But it
was always my
malcontent companion, at
the ready to
champion the cliffs that

knocked me from
the wagon.

A dragon of
my making, fire breath
flaying the mourning horizon
I find most comforting

alive.

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