With a semi-automatic tucked behind a jean pocket
a life of policed solitude and desperation
framed by hopeless attempts at chocolate kisses
ending with misery and thrown-away wrappers
There is no silver lining here.
Locked away with the money is the dream
under codes, some never to be unlocked—
for the key has been thrown away
destroyed by the acidity of the passing day
rained on by water and something very bitter.
Painted upon with generosity and fierce bravado
but the canvas is ripped and the colors fading
the brushes chipped and abandoned in a corner
The buyer has sold to the lowest bidder
A few coins in a wood-iron case.
A story told and retold, but with no change of words
and the paper is yellow with rotting age
smelling like a musty space full of nothing
the inked words dripping with suspense
but questionable to the point of disdain.
There is no secret, no girlish games of trickery
no boyish ambition or wandering eye
no love for the lie or jealousy sly
no tragedy great or potion of hate
just two people with minds like ribcages—
each connect but both branch apart.
