There’s sickness in old soliloquies, villainy to the rhythm of words.
Sixteen year old (outcast) self
makes trainwrecks of most ambitious sentences,
leaves the taste of fire in my mouth.
Ashen narratives dance with matches
that burned them,
turned them from ocean waters,
extinguished hope as waves would flames.
But morning came,
empty notebook pages
washed out to sea.
Beautiful days I used to calibrate darkness
The trees I used to seek shade,
rendered charred stumps
of hollow wood
in soil like oil sands.
If words had working hands,
my spiderwebs matched small standards
matches would never be lit.
Arson wouldn’t feel like half the crime it is,
this time capsule wouldn’t be lost to ashes.