Riding Words

I’m riding words and brandishing metaphors,

Playing alchemist with mountains of pride,

Delaying time to unveil understanding.

 

But you can’t listen.

Your ears turn brittle

When I jump in front of buses loaded with spiteful artillery.

Blown apart from the impact,

I leave the scene of unspoken crimes,

To be met in critical condition

By you, your denials and final detonation.

 

I take the blast and ask what love reveals,

When bleeding and maligned as liar,

I am taken by force and placed on pyre

By legal legionnaires, unaccustomed to appeals.

 

Your words must hold weight,

“I love you,” right?

But in playing in traffic

I am not content in waiting nights

Alone, confused and conspiring flights.

 

Who’s right or who’s wrong?

“Don’t matter t’ me!”

I only want for the Truth to uncover,

And sweet Grace just wholly heal.

 

Tossed, doubled over and breath uptight,

I go back to one.

Two minus one–

Too fraudulent, too difficult and too duplicitous

In deserving the company of society’s estranged.

You and I judging when no 1 has won

X minus one for equating the pain.

 

Blame me but I remain

Unresolved in twisted memory and

Trick questions and unsolvable word problems.

They linger with hurtful tone and piercing placement,

In torn up pieces of my best, my worst

And my moments of self-excision,

Removed from dissected cross-sections–

Flesh and blood, impervious shards of breakable me.

 

John–crazy passionate zeal to find the truth–

In no uncertain terms, his head on platter

Like me, head severed from

Truth, myself and real responsibility.

 

I lay disconnected, flailing, dismembered

Parts of love and justice.

Judge and jury, you left the best in me,

And rightly wronged the trust to be,

Finally me and never again a ‘wannabe’.

 

I walk away.

I must, you see–

You want invasive surgery.

 

Euthanized a thousand times–

Choreographed like puppeteer would have.

I hang, suspended parts of me I used to be–

Dripping there and drawing flies

And you complaining about the lack of meat.

 

I call on you–my deepest Source.

O’ Powerful Physician, I will to heal myself

Of trade imbalances–of parts violated.

I transcend the curse and take with me

Love and forgiveness.

 

Sometimes there are those

Who make it right by saying so.

I entertain the thoughts respectfully–

But waiting for a blameless right

Which cuts with light

And uses truth to cut with knife.

 

You may look at life

And wonder if once porous hearts

Have crystallized by saying,

“I must be right!”.

The densely growing shadow at cock’s light,

Can nip the phallus that’s grown too callous.

 

You wag on and on,

My head complains.

You see, you saw

But I just want a peaceful life.

You doubt and leave–

My heart skips and goes on for now.

 

But you may always claim to see

Faults and missed trust I leave.

But meanings changed and we both deceived.

What makes you the one with hurtful keeps?

You want to feel I was short of good.

It helps when thinking, longing and missing me.

 

I would be heard and but you had

The deepest hurt or the strongest suit.

 

I gave up and you rode my words.

 

You had marked them and their memory.

 

You had carved them

 

Into my mortal membrane.

 

You rode my heart, till at last–

 

It stopped.

 

You rode my words till at last–

 

The knife, you dropped.

 

Drenched in my blood,

 

You had ridden farther than any mortal man

 

Should take a word and brandish a knife.

 

A metaphor is only a device.

 

A poem is only a work.

 

A word is only a word.

 

Copyright John R Pigate, 2006