Killing the Fiction

In these words, Ill splurge; the urge to get back at you. Having the moment, you left me you gave me some solitude. But etched in the memories, it’s on fast play forever the same, There’s no going back, your life a soundtrack; On loop, over and over, one rhythm and chorus, it forewarned us; the amplitude you’d measure; but we were too blind and stupid to hinder or consider your words now wisdom engraved on Cinder. In fiction, I’m known as the killer not the plague or preacher that screeches the voice of a man left in a can; Sent to Iran, the cold turkeys in the pan, wife and kids left to understand way daddy came home in a bag and not a cab, soon comes a Christmas without a dad. I’m dropping buckets trying to say the way I feel; the silence inside how its more than prescribed to the doctors & shrink; they’re minks covered in ink to happy to sink the stage I left you; the bass slowly fading as I’m stuck contemplating. I’m chocking sane, but it’s all real and I’m Just fiction to the distinction of church bell in my ear and the whispers and gossip of why you’re not here. The message was clear you needed me here; but I sat down at the center stage, the curtains open, your face pale; cold as winter. As the choirs fades, the mic turns on with no applaud, your voice is gone and now they’re telling me your gone.