Drop Game

A pedestal above the sky,

Leering downwards.

A curiosity only mimicked by a child

And their incessant urge grab,

The very air in front of their eyes.

And so this excuse of a lousy man,

And his lack of care towards his only role in society.

Reflects in the foundation of the crumbling home,

Being consumed by the bits and pieces of broken ligaments

Melted into particles dusted with the texture of teenage heartache

And a monotonous brown.

This very location in coordination

With the sparkling eyes above,

In the puddle of the black mush of questions.

Whose answers lie concealed by the thickness of time.

And when the paint streaks of the crepuscular rays,

Scratching the surface of the intangible nothing.

Consumed by the chilled results of terra firma.

It’s under these eyes that come twinkling as the paint dulls and dies- dissipating.

That the conglomeration of nails slicing into the fibers of geriatric pine and oak,

That the confused go.

Those whose hearts are held,

Encaged in feeble palms.

Lubricated with the exudation of their skin,

Their minds perceiving that a world as plagued as this one.

Wouldn’t leap to ensure their twisted pleasure of,

Encasing the blood vessels of a feeble heart.

With the edge of a knife.

And this unconceivable age in which open hearts.

Are seen as a continuous line perched precariously above i’s.

Somehow thought to be the same shape that describes.

The very organ that keeps the alive.

As if a shape this perfect could exist.

In us.

The imperfect wise ones.

And it is here free hearts cupped by palms.

Astray fireflies leading the way to the others.

The other lost ones.

The inescapable impending weight of self inflicted pain

Of a home hidden in the depths of their minds.

Ready to drown in the murkiness.

Of the sorrow it pumps into their blood.

Faster.

Faster.

Collected whispers echo.

Vibrating the walls.

Shivering floorboards grimace as the mass.

Of impotent lights beat the rhythm of their own hopelessness.

Somewhere in the maze of rotting jackets ripped open by time on the swollen trees.

There silently waited and innocuous shack.

Herds of tried and true arrive.

Hands struggling to grasp glass vessels-clanking.

Like storms raging,

A noise meant to warn.

But these ones,

Drank in the fear and exhaled-nothing.

For they simply held in place a dopey grin.

A smirk and the slight squish

Of the epidermis collected by the eye.

A cotton ball reflecting downwards,

Through the scars and vacant drops of temperature.

Illuminating the freckled skin –chapped by the blistering unseen.

Glasses emerges from desperate warmth hidden in layers of fabric.

Nestled between mittens.

The countdown begins.

5- Bottles reveal themselves.

4- Hearts thrown to the recesses of the nameless lurking behind their backs

For this was a two hand job.

3- The bottle travels round, a ship battling the sea for its mere ownerships of the space that in consumes in the tears of the dying earth.

2- Ribbons peek from the narrow tunnel colliding with a resounding uplift of the flat plane of glass.

1-feet shiver as they undertake the weight of the feet attached to them.

It begins.

Liquid drops- 1 2 millions.

Vanishing in seconds.

The drop game.

Each a poison.

A venomous mind embedding itself within.

Waiting.

Accumulating like a powder fluff.

Of shavings from the chaffing of clouds.

Eyes no longer twinkling with the iridescent of life.

Harboring the delusions of sporadic thoughts.

Feet straying.

Gravity enforcing,

Darkness.

The humble abode harboring the fugitives of society shudders as the thud.

Of bodies pulsates every molecule with intensity.

Only matched by the whirling wind of trauma.

Stealing thoughts, people, and lives.

Each thud of a body- a shot.

1 kill for me.

2 kills for humanity.

3 for their own lives.

Ridding themselves for a moment of eternal reclining.

Midway between flight and ground.

Their hearts so consumed with a hell bent nature made acrimony.

That their hearts beat.

1 2… pause… 3 4.

It’s in that pause.

That the breath chokes.

A sputtering engine,

A frustrated turning of the keys,

And it revives from the dead.

Its here those fallen soldiers fight the illusions of themselves,

In internal war.

That the drop game is played.

Open hearts discarded.

Empty shells left.

Arms astray.

Accumulating falling snow in the crevices of the palms faced upwards.

Breathe shallow.

Smoke exhaled through every strained lift of the rib cage.

Smiles like dying light bulbs stain broken faces.

This is them.

This is here.

This is the drop game.

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