Console

i’ve made so much of my life with these hands. hammering houses to the ground so as to merge fear and fallibility while watching the world from my window. so as to meet monsters with merriment; to take their time and make into moments.

i’ve taken occasion to beam blue light from the aqua of my eyes. to see what’s behind the beginning of an ending sitting silently, or screaming, on street corners north of where the sun settles in the south.

i’ve watched the dawning of new days take what’s been given to souls who wish to live without sacrifice, after sacrifice. so as to seem like in their wishes for hours to make promises out of something more than pure pity.

i’ve stood in crowds, with and without the look of acid in other’s eyes. crying for the widow who will always be in mourning. making a monument in my mind for the man who found freedom for the man who spits on the sidewalk where he sleeps.

i’ve reluctantly stumbled upon knowledge i didn’t wish to seek. the ways of the world and how senselessness can hardly fit into sentences. sovereignty for the felicitous and well-intentioned exertions from those who seek to self rule.

i can’t seem to make a memory of it. slaloming between beauty and granting grace to the foundation we all believe to be immune and established. molding our own heaven, from our own hands. making it mean something while the nothingness hangs around like the fog we meet with careless consciousness.

i know of the time it takes to blanket the bitter so as to seem a better believer. to stand on street sweepers and proselytize to the filth who only stand a chance when under the feet of the forgiven.

i’ve heard so much of my own head in this life of lurid lessons and bewitching beginnings gone grey in the matter of my own mind. in my heart that beats harder when days are short on sensational. and still i stand staggered and still, just holding out for hope.