Fricative
Resting callously on the edge of the tongue, tunneling through my skull like a worm.
I squirm at the thought of being reduced to naught as I often am.
Reveling in the pile of haste that I hath cultivated.
Enumerated and exiled by my own hand;
in doing, unraveling my skin on the pike.
Returning to the all and returning to nothing.
Fall at the shadows and pray forgiveness.
Throw it away and wash all your dishes.
Don't act like you didn't have any more wishes.
Giving it all so giving up isn't so hard.
It's all upon me; it's been lifted again.
The balance I cultivate between bliss and crushing defeat.
Dealt the hand that casts the blow.
Prison bile and bloody tile.
Holding this file on my youth, now sand.
The sand of time which I learned isn't mine.
Watching the signs, the lines blur my mind.
I've cried all the time, I've followed the tides.
I've concealed the briny waves,
given into the demands of the age,
put it all in my pocket and hoped that might stop it.
But it won't, it's shoved down my throat, it can float,
it crossed the moat just to leave me a goat,
a sacrificial note, reminding me of what I wrote long ago.
What I sought is now moot.
What I see now is a fruit, so precious and cute.
Had I been astute, I'd know that the heavens are nothing if not mute.