January 4th in The Writer

I grow in the small cut aways left to me.
Your residual bald spots
where weeded and pulled,
first grappling, then dominating your lies.

Quiet in the forgotten undergrowth,
yet un-razed, out of breath with panic
to cover up falsehoods.

Take back the avenues, the thoroughfares.
to silence the stumbling truth.
Much like an unsure toddler
reaching, pulling back,
distrustful of its own legs.

I have walked the words across my mouth, and let them go.
A belch from deeper chambers
would not taste so sour as the timbre of those axioms.

Lay low, gravel pebbling my knees
sun blistering danger of exposure.
I can see your perjury hanging obscene,
a trench coat felony.

You, seeking absolution from the mother,
driving her to the dirt, pounding everything good into nihility.

I see you, from the gutters,
from the cracks, the spaces you failed
to sweep clean.

And I am waiting to wreck you.

Last updated January 16, 2017