swift-grips

Getalong:

Sheathed-tongue pleasantries fail me

Never adept with swiftness of firm grip

Not enough conviction in palms, knuckles, digits;

Ensconce intentions with breadcrumb trails 

Overanalyzing all, praying this be a shared damnation

Learning to envy the mouth of a layman

Who dare not deny such doleful candor

Of how the night clutches intently with sure talons

Counting every sheepish tile of a ceiling that knows no respite

Find me in postcards that bid your evening well

I am always on the run from the truth

My teeth shelter risks that fear enunciation

Hands connect wrists that wear trepidation

Undress my every word and find me undone

Naked boy in man’s flesh armor 

Writing notes remaining unsent, constructing a mountain of their corpses

That stretches well into the heavens;

Lonesome tyrant of a quiet kingdom,

Do you not tire of your glass throne?

Fetch a spade and leave no syllable unturned

Reclaim me adrift for Mercury’s sun

I have known planets and I have seen supernovas

Whisper your answer if you know how they get along.