sober

[Eŋg]

the mind stops.
we confuse stasis for backwards movement,
i've got unused basics. acting prudent
but these fundamentals are built on shaky terrain
- whose falling? truth calling,
does her gentle lilt ache me again,
or chase in the vein a beat that resounds
of a feeling i've floundered to forget.
tell me how your pulse speaks
and its pound you reject?
now it's false speech as the sound you respect.
white-knuckle grip bound around your neck, shit.
my trouble is you still don't have to accept it.
but i'm choking, too.
broken; knowing enough
to have this sobering overview
where hope isn't holding you up.
suppress all the pain till the notion erupts,
you find a good fit from the moulds that are cut:
the caskets, the cradles, cold are their touch.
serpent-mouth sews itself shut.
skin shed, instead: change is the nobler of loves
for oneself.
yet we talk about the colour of whose lives matter,
…aren't we all made up of matter?
as if we can’t shatter the illusion
in the hues of our skin and realise that we are kin
bound by the movement of the same fluid through our limbs.
that colour's blood-red,
over colour blood sheds,
o brother! undead we live life defining
ourselves by divisive lines on
maps ancestors drew -- for people we never knew,
so sever truth
if you’re not willing to serve what’s right.
i mean... we’re all living imperfect lives,
yea we struggle, but is there purpose in our plight,
would Sisyphus know what the burden’s like?!
in a word – he might. It’s absurd I write all of this,
performing more for myself than I do my audience.
there’s a voice that observes, sometimes I’m absorbed with it,
plucking all my past experiences and it’s auditing,
am I sincere or in fear; real or fraudulent?
does my shrinking ego recoil at the thought of it?
If solely obsessed with appearances,
what self-love is there for the core within your ripe heart?
the mind starts.