Ruse of the grave #168

1.

Knelt on the ground
before the gathered family
and my father’s grave

trying to share
a prepared moment, the speech
I’ve batted around

for days. But words
are faithless beasts when backed
in corners. They sound

almost like air
escaping. They come out slurred
and soft and angry.

I was preaching
to no one when the suns slack
tightened before me

which means the glare
landed just right to attack
my heart’s ink black cave.

All the debris
cascaded out, the absurd
lines that kept me brave.

2.

I looked around
to root out the voice, angry
and screaming, the cave

and its stank air,
our house’s slammed doors, preaching
to the soon void sound

of darkness, slurred
epithets thrown in a slack
moment to the ground.

Then the sun’s glare
tapered off and the absurd
gathered around me

breathed, and the speech
returned and finished, fell back
to our false family.

I’ve never shared
my view, told of the attack
of light, of the brave

thoughtless debris,
like dust, I carried off. Words
I spoke by the grave.

3.

Back home, the ground
felt hollow, and the angry
boy inside, that brave

and skittish hare
who carried back this debris
found lying around

sat down, heart slurred
and tears, the one’s he’d held back
flowed without a sound

splitting the air
around him. What an absurd
man, an odd family

the old preaching
of their arguments, a tax
on the will of me.

At home, the glare
of the light bulbs does not slack
the grave condition

of my eyes. Speech
is not impaired. The old words
just dead in that cave.

4.

Then not a sound,
not the consoling family
hug, nor the too brave

back pat, the glare
over the glasses, and speech
about how around

this time, one word
will be enough to bring back
all the awful sounds

and sights, the air
may seem heavier, the slurred
days may be angry.

This sad preaching,
as if one person’s attack
of guilt could salve me.

I watched a share
of my life vanish. The slack
of that truth, that grave

awful debris
haunts me, the absurdity
of it fills this cave.

5.

Knelt on the ground
inside myself, left angry
and feeling not brave

trying to share
the torn and confounded speech
my boat’s run aground

on for days. Words
are left-out, under attack
or lying around

almost like air,
they are treated like absurd
relatives, family.

I was preaching
on dirt, while everyone’s back
was turned, all angry.

Which means the glare
was not the sun, but the slack
jawed ruse at the grave.

All the debris
crashed around me, the slurred
slimed walls of this cave.

6.

I looked around
the cemetery for me,
shifting round each grave,

and its stank air
to ferret out the the preacher
inside, in the ground

of darkness, slurred
down my lost words, shoved them back
in without a sound.

Then the sun’s glare
shot down my throat, grabbed the words
I’d spoke in anger,

breathed, and the speech
slipped away and tumbled slack
on my stone family

I’ve never shared.
One can decided to attack
what’s held in the cave

thoughtless debris,
or choose to flee, an absurd
method to be brave.

7.

Back home, the ground
that held up the house, held me,
while the thoughts of grave

and skittish scares
pocketed any debris
that still made a sound.

I sat, heart slurred
and let the frontal attack
roll on and around

me, split the air,
and with no less than a word
get me all angry.

The old preaching
of my parents took me back
to roots of family.

At home, the glare
of my father’s shadow, his slacks
and photos, his brave

and cold eyes. Speech
is nothing if not absurd
in an empty cave.

8.

Knelt on the ground
before our gathered family
my son at my grave

trying to share
a prepared moment, the speech
he’s batted around

for days. But words
are faithless beasts when backed
in corners. They sound

almost like air
escaping. They come out slurred
and soft and angry.

He was preaching
to no one when my arm’s slack
tightened around he,

which means the glare
landed just right to attack
his heart’s crystal cave.

All the debris
cascaded out, the absurd
gave to keep him brave.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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