If I wasn’t relentless you’d expect this to be the last of my attempts; that blank page taunting my brows to drench, waging war, digging deep in my mental trench, but repetition becomes absurd, as quick as the repeated word—in the third verse of the terse line-in that rhythm-in that conversation-that time. If you’ll remember when the sun beat down and caught the corner of the room, kiddy cornered the portion of your soon, to be thought out plan of attack, conscious of the morning’s slack over your potentially blacked out coat over the walls of your mind, and in time you’d find that words bled sentence, bled thought, bled rhyme.
So you put down your gun for your turn, took your finger off the trigger and yearned for the burn of the motion of a hand slicing down, and around the corner of the room, music lay as a blanket for the looming sense of abandon, frozen stare at the pen wondering which hand your set it in, the child lock of your mind, incessant tick tock of time, couldn’t dispel the who the what the when where and why. You tried free hand to represent your sentiment in a sentence that wouldn’t convey what you meant it to say, further from the truth, as you stray from your thought and got lost in the fog that surrounds, the edges of your emotion, careful coddled, fervent devotion in the semblance of the truth. And all at once the moment came to a halt and we thought like the scene, in that one dream, all would shift shimmer fade to black, and end.