I relapsed, unimaginably so, into my
childhood dreams framing them
beside one another. Painstakingly I
paint, each emotion from memory in
an attempt to provide color to a greyscale that
slides ambiguously from light to shadow.
I linger, hesitant to pause, still shading the past as
moving on is a challenge that I do not willingly accept.
Furrowed chagrin colors my face
streaming profusely, still yet to be
streamlined as rough, unidentified edges
bound and actively define the
tunnels cut through tears that salt
and erode, once dimples, making stale
my favorite smile.
Occasionally I will pantomime my dreams, accidentally,
into a mistaken reality wherein I am a dreamer
but more than that I am me, undeniably so. My hands are
spurned, driven mad, up and down as they burn scribbled
charades into the air and then suspend them; as if
my actions alone brought them to life. Seconds pass
and they live half-lives with no voice, rather my breathing beats
air into their lack of physical being and provides them with heart.
Heart enough for millions from one barely enough for me and it
will forever beat, until my real charade is given voice by another.
My uninspired attempts at masterpiece sear the tips of my fingers that charcoal infinitely onto innocent paper, scarring its symmetry with coarse words whose sounds scrape, strangely unaware of their existence, against each other etching impulse into, my, reality that of imitation mass produced norms that confound the essence of life.
Blind stumbles numb my hands
smacking into half-painted walls
leaving smudged reminders, of where
I am or was but exuding no direction,
my fingers point up and left right,
with no care for etiquette riddling to each
onlooker my worries; what will become of a
man who feels lost in his home.