Inside our outer circle a single
act, regurgitates justice: stealing, no,
sealing away approximations of
clarity as perspectives grow, callousing,
until entirely entrenched in abbreviated arrogance
over a verdict of unanimity.
Slowly stealing their second chance,
empty promises soon become
as material as the rain.
City lights endure,
permitting protection from darkness
cutting into the general surroundings, with
unequaled brilliance. I, alone in the night
lost in clarity as a memorandum of
fog, forged by decaying cigarettes, left
unattended by pedestrian eyes signaling to me the
cracks in the sidewalk that supports the city.
Supporting the daily commute and crime,
murdering my childish smile when one cigarette
smolders out making me notice
blood drops on the concrete.
Omnipotent, hardships free
allegedly offered to others in
pseudo trades that labor,
today and evermore as ignorance
overflows their chalice but never quenches
for its embroidered weight in
blood-diamond and emerald chips
tips Liberty’s scales,
colored as an unjustly harvested field
hoping only for one diamond to unset, stick,
in the throats of the guilty.
Furrowed chagrin colors my face
streaming profusely, still yet to be
streamlined as rough, unidentified edges
bound and actively define the
tunnels cut through tears that salt
and erode, once dimples, making stale
my favorite smile.
Occasionally I will pantomime my dreams, accidentally,
into a mistaken reality wherein I am a dreamer
but more than that I am me, undeniably so. My hands are
spurned, driven mad, up and down as they burn scribbled
charades into the air and then suspend them; as if
my actions alone brought them to life. Seconds pass
and they live half-lives with no voice, rather my breathing beats
air into their lack of physical being and provides them with heart.
Heart enough for millions from one barely enough for me and it
will forever beat, until my real charade is given voice by another.
"How famous do you have to be before a murder becomes an assassination?" - Alan Fletcher / From breakdown to recovery and back again in naught-to-sixty /// Twitter: @DickensianJack / Facebook: www.facebook.com/dickensianjack