Solitude

Tongues stall kind words to say - planes with wheels on a waterway- A relentless chase of light bulbs above wondering minds and breaking the switch everytime it's caught. In something.  Mercy, grief, fires within  choke on smoke forsaking  hallucinations that geraniums are my favorite  blooming within the weeds of a diary where trust breeds like bacteria and scales on fish skin are just as beautiful and preservable as any composition.  Where humiliation and pride collide over whom I should assist by comparing whose bones are grayer and graver underneath their hole of self destruction labeled with misfits. Figuring out thoughts more fragmented than a stained glass puzzle paralyzed in the pencil shavings of a rough draft by drunken angels who usually sculpt the outcome of nightmares.  So many rags my body has constructed to soak up the outpuring of suffering that they dug up with years of cemented, pulled back, brittle fingernails and forearms covered in filthy apologies that don't even hug me, but accuse me of self absorption.  And misdirection, lying naked, like a dehydrated compass, wanting nothing more than guidance by an optional savior whose footprints are undefined to conceal the number of followers he refines through choice of circumstance. Still, I pray. For them. Perception has me demented. Angrily unmovable. Impenetrable in the range of sanity. A brown-nosed sorcerer, picked to pieces for parts needed for an insecurity blanket to shield a reflection of madness or jealousy or a seamstress to help them put it back together. Although my darkest reasons for anything are just as genuine as the shadow of a dying leaf barely gripping for it's life on the limb of an oak tree.  The scars upon my soul have yet to develop a conscious communication of their own.   I apologize when I do not speak.  Sometimes I believe solitude is more forgiving.