Between the words

I can hardly read a book

without finding you

between the words,

between the worlds

of fantasy and fiction.

were you ever really here?

the silence between the chords

of the songs you adored.

I’m trapped here, in the reverberating air,

hoping you’ll echo into existence.

the pencil twists in the old cassette

turning back space, turning back time.

parity is broken, but clarity conserved.

I see exactly how we got here,

yet cannot see where we’re headed.

where we’re headed.

we.

we?

you, I, us, me.

her, him, them, he.

one, one, two, one.

a recurring zero to infinity.

I asymptote closer to forgetting you,

a neon sign in the rainy distance

as I drive away.

nothing but silence, and the sound of rain.

that’s juxtoposition right? Maybe irony?

I can hardly focus

on the words,

without finding you

in between.

Anhedonia

Scientists declare there is no soul. They dissected the bodies and found no trace. A boy staggers through blood and bones, Charred flesh covering half his face.

The pundits promise that we’re good, As long as the numbers don’t decrease. The Dow jones goes through the roof, A starved girl dies in the street.

The politicians throw up their hands, There’s no choice but to spread democracy. Troops deployed on foreign lands, Their murder disguised through bureaucracy.

The sky erupts in golden stars As people celebrate their freedom. Vacant eyes watch on behind prison bars Awaiting trial for no crime or reason.

A man lies at home alone, Closes his eyes without a sound. He used up all his insulin Waiting for the trickle down.

Waiting, like we all are, For another coin toss election. For more promises but no action. For our history of mistakes To never end, to loop again

And again and again.

Until He calls time.

Our non existent souls

Dragged

From our throats.

Wishing

We could go back

And maybe

Try again.

'Til Death

‘It’s too bad we couldn’t Hire a vicar’, she said, Her gas mask lit with the dying light Streaking through the destroyed roof.

‘Well I suppose they’ve gone Where all vicars end up’, I reply. She shudders a smile in the winter breeze, ‘At least that’s warmer than here’.

We clasp hands by the burnt slab Of what was once an altar, Letting the moment last a little longer. Complete silence, save for the distant gunshots.

‘Do you take me to be your Lawfully wedded husband, Through sickness, health, chaos, Destruction and the end of the world?’.

‘I do’, she says, putting her arms Around my blood stained shirt. ‘Any objections?’ I ask the empty rows of pews, My voice echoing into nothingness.

We exchange rings made Of paperclips, then embrace. The gunshots draw closer. We share a look. Time to move.