Objects without a story

Not lionized or accursed, not a source of wisdom or song

Objects without a story, unburdened with sentiment; devoid of outward interest, lacking a beginning and charm

Pitiable and stagnant, awaiting their decaying epoch, as no roving eyes pause upon them, disabused of desire

Resigned to dwine in their shadowed box unbidden

They abrade no memory’s surface, yet steadfastly collect the dust of ages, and ash of bridges

They neither twitch a lip to herald a smile, nor stitch a brow to presage a justified frown

They are nothing in the overwhelming nothingness

No one remains to inquire, no one qualifies to respond; unrecollected, she exists; an object awaiting

Begging of her breath to halt its march; pleading with the rose to wilt with her prose

Lest she be forced to remember herself

art: void of non-existence by Peterio

Wasted words

He writhes and tries beneath
the watchful oaken knots bleeding
down the panderous wooden doors

They silently listen to his silence, but
react only to the tumult of enamourous
heartbeats behind their truer sides

Imperfections in the window panes
warp his warped view of the painful
imperfections he’s been shown

Dissecting his reflection, and others
he sees through, his features don’t
stand out amidst the banal amalgam

Staring stolen daggers into his wasted
words, reloaded from the broken back
he no longer turns, leaned on too often

Wooden man swallowing the knots in
his throat, deafened to the rapturous
fracas chiding his sensibilities

Insincere gratitudes, obligatory read
throughs, misplaced attitudes to fill
their waiting pews

Alas, he left no daggers for himself,
so must step into the fray, and release
anew more wasted words

art: Circumcision by Jackson Pollock

Invisible

The shadow, swallowed by the darkened corner
The below average, bringing down the curve
The dead, overshadowed by the crying mourner
The straight-laced, out done by the crazy swerve

The teardrop, melting in the scalding shower
The single note, dropped in the concert hall
The whisper, lost beneath the voice of power
The mighty tree, unheard in the forest fall

The words, overlooked for the pretty pictures
The heart, hidden behind the wretched beard
The new, stepped over for the familiar fixtures
The potential, consumed by that what’s feared

The invisible, he; no one’s cup of tea