Stretching just makes the bond stronger
The dripping cord stands motionless as we clean our open wounds
As people test the elasticity
Of our tissues and organs and love.
They hold their interrogative blades, piercing the roots of our unhappiness and then leave us unattended to bleed, while they cry
“Poor creatures. What a pity. Poor, sad, little things”.
A full audience of stretched fingers accuses us of an anomaly.
A lingering form of disease that resists through time,
Influencing the way decades pass with strenuous dedication not to absorb us into insignificance.
Time is deeply dedicated to embroider us permanently to the frame of life.
People want plausible explanations.
The simplified version of history,
In a manner they can put their clammy hands on,
Bend it as they believe it’s the right way.
Cringeworthy children trying to touch artwork in a museum,
Entertained solely by colors and sounds.
We’re too much of a sober tone for them to satisfy on.
A court was built just to judge us and find what’s so intricate
That life would bother to cling us together.
But the quintessential speech has no effect on the doltish,
It falls flat as a blank paper, as a vital message
Written in an undecipherable language.
People take it for rubbish.
So the boiling mysteries of life are thrown away
Because the fear of questioning and admitting its depths
Seems worse than looking into the shadows and taking it all
For the only irrevocable truth.
What a fortunate fate that when I stare at the frigid face of darkness,
Your silvery eyes scintillate back and the path is stark clear.