How Many More Times?

Beating of black hearts, cold blooded thoughts, hot blooded ideas
and the deliberate pause of a person about to step
to miss the trip and still take the journey
with or without the consent of parties who would be party to it.
In cut-glass crystal, cracked mirrors, in retrospective memory
image and imaginary somehow blur to being the right view
like a vision adjacent to that which people wanted to see,
all the positive thinking in the world wont wipe the surfaces down
or steam clean the guilt from between cotton thread.

It is easy to point the finger, wag that index of contempt,
and often gratifying to do so when everyone else is looking
for somewhere to look, to place blame, to write it off
bad seed
black sheep
born under a bad sign
there was always something not right about that boy…
we all take a five finger discount from the truth
because sleeping well at night seems to be out biggest priority.

There is a possibility that somewhere amongst the breathing
alongside knowledge-knowing-noting-naming
that one of these days a one-of-these-days will be too late,
all fingers crossed and turned cheek blind eye
fast pacing the news into yesterday for tomorrow’s problem
will topple the king and purge the if onlys,
bringing us to our knees only to find them dirty already,
a future full to the brim of a distinct lack of possibilities
and a tangible certainty that all we did was successfully fail.

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