Inertia

Does passion just pass on
as we get older?

At what age do we say
that "This is okay" and that
change is no longer in order?

What's the timeline when the heart and mind
endevor to build their own borders?

We're free to be free but we choose to bury - ourselves: hoarders

Age is a cage, filled with comfort and rage
in which we willingly quarter.

Then reminisce on the times that we miss or we missed
the ones that we kissed
the ones we dismissed
the ones we assist - ed
the times we persist - ed
We subsist
on the mist - y
memories

and cease moving forward.

Does passion just pass on?
conclusions - foregone?
when we
give in or give up
cease giving a fuck
settle for singing the same song?

Is it wrong?

At what age do we say
that "This is okay" and that
change is no longer in order?

What's the timeline when the heart and mind
endevor to build their own borders?

Age is a cage, filled with comfort and rage
in which we willingly quarter
and cease moving forward.

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

Abuse, disease, one ill-fated turn.

Some die in the womb. Others are born.

There are those who succumb to depression and fear

Others? Through triumph and hardship - still here.

How many "Greats" have we lost far too young?

How many songs cut short, left unsung?

How many works of art linger on?

How many unfinished once the Master was gone?

And what of the butcher?

The baker?

The candlestick maker?

Or those who made nothing at all?

The lambs to the slaughter

the cannon fodder

the holes in the ground with no names.

Shame.

Cacophony of beauty, bound up by pain

All of it teardrops, lost in the rain?

Some go and some stay.

Some scoff and some pray.

But stand, kneel, or lay

The End - it always ends the same way.

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

Sincere Question

How did y'all get so bad at analogies and so good at false equivalences?

Mattress Side

She bit down hard on the corners of her mouth as the green blips on the monitor flatlined - folks would be suspicious if she smiled.

She desperately wanted to smile though.

A metallic taste formed in her mouth. She swallowed, hoping the blood hadn't stained her teeth.

Any observer who witnessed this swallow would see it as a sign of quiet resolve. Of bravery in the face of unimaginably tragic circumstances.

But it wasn't unimaginable. Cheryl had imagined versions of this moment for a long time.

Beside the hospital bed, as her mother drew her final, labored breaths, Cheryl held the clammy hand, limp upon the mattress, and felt that familiar but elusive sensation up her spine: excitement. A chill only achieved by doing something naughty or dangerous. And getting away with it.

Any moment now...

Any moment now the breathing would cease. Any moment now, the face slacken. Any moment now the woman who gave her life would be plunged forever into darkness by the Harbinger of Death.

"Harbinger of Death," Cheryl mused. Deciding the moniker fit, and conveyed the true levels of her power, she imagined what the words would look like printed on a shirt. A low cut, tight, black one. One that would make Dr. Spencer notice...

She bit her lip again.

Mustn't smile.

The future she'd planned for, fought for, killed for, only moments away now. Her ultimate triumph hung in the air like all the empty promises and hurtful words.

"She's gone."