I'm alone, in this kitchen,
that is forever messy,
even when cleaned up, I've just cleaned it again.
Its too late again, another twilight confession,
under these rain laden clouds.
I'm playing with this gun at the table,
scratched and burnt, from nights I can't remember.
It feels heavy and powerful,
the potential in the barrel,
the cold metal of the mechanism.
And every fear tipped question, as boring as the bourgeoisie,
feels like a bullet,
as I load it.
I'm enthralled.
I play with it, like an apathy wrapped tragedy,
slowly sliding under my dreads,
slowly sliding as if my dread,
was the only key to let me feel.
And I can feel the hole,
pressed like a lovers lips, to my temple,
where the false idol has been offered many virgins,
this kitchen floor needs another stain.
Question after question after question,
I'm pulling the trigger tight,
Releasing it like the breath,
Releasing it like this death,
Of a calm, that won't survive this.
For the quest is the only high I get,
as lives slip, through the cracks in the pavement,
of a path so tread,
you forget that you're walking.
It shakes me like foundations,
when the queries ricochet,
through the hallowed halls,
of a moment in absentia,
the dusty throne in the universe of Atman.
Lonely as a single flashlight,
fighting caverns of darkness,
one beam at a time,
leaving the treasure to ignorance.
I'm doing it again,
Evolving me, and it absolves me,
of material pleasure,
wilting peacock feathers.
I can lean on experience this time,
and chase the outcome,
for my shoes are threadbare,
and laces are undone.
I keep my soul under my feet,
and use it for wings,
Praying that God sees me as Perseus,
and gives me a reason to leap into hell
to snatch redemption from the devil himself.
I pay my penance with pennies painted,
with the face of frustration,
tender coins of confusion,
until the very last one has sung.
I'm investing in myself,
so no matter the designer I'm draped in,
it remains snake skin.
Question everything, if only to better ask.
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