onism – n. the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time
Sometimes, just sometimes
When the walls won’t crack against my gnawing feet,
When my eyes won’t be drunk on all the beauty that brings me dawn,
I’ll begin to surface,
In the rawness of lights that cradle up the sunset in the stranger’s dress.
I’ll struggle, you know- to renew a darker shade of fondness in the redhead’s freckles. I’ll make myself a little home, with thunder for walls and rain for roof, to scream my tragedies from the rooftops of my lips.
You must also know,
Someday, when I’m old enough to climb mountains that aren’t stationary,
I’ll cover the slopes that rest upon the caves of that man with a torn book.
I’ll also won’t ever forget, the blood red grass, with soaked blood and salt of that survivor,
Whose passions lay littered,
shot by a bullet with a velocity I can’t goddamn calculate.
I will do, anything but stay,
And notice the cavities in the breath of that green eyed boy, which howl to see the moonlight strain from the curtains of his prison.
What if I could rest my palm on the peaks of this life, and waltz through the motions of wishes, I know, that only a black hole can fulfill?
Ah, so much for short lives, and even shorter lies.