The way this day carries on, one might think
it invalid, paralyzed from neck down,
wheelchair bound, unable to roll around
or speak more than “yes” or “no” via blink.
Or, maybe it wishes for not to sink,
but to shadow itself to a moonless sound,
to boil by the bay while gulls crack the ground,
dead from exhaustion, seared, and charbroiled pink.
But, seabird viscera sustains no Mute
so cowardly as to entrap His sun
which hangs suspended on enraptured thigh -
no, it’s the nightingales enchanting flute
that calls this day to be a darkened run,
that sours sweet the spineless song of lullaby.
There is a thin line between anxious, nail-biting life and bitter buried death.
Though we tread carefully the tightrope has been lit by the match of time.
Let us hem these charbroiled rends that the ones we loved have spoiled, in an attempt to pull us down.
With heart mottled arms we reach into perilous seas.
To find a siren singing her eardrum bashing hymn. Is this love?
I think I will just hook my baited heart and cast once more. Bite.
-Mitch