old days have folded — I’m calling to nothing. they were rushed, now the drumroll is peaking. everything i once loved stands in a row of statues — in that slumber i sense their holding, but upon a leaning their support’s as strong as dust. fear and courage ellipticals though it won’t ever balance out, and every next time snares itself. these days my heart never opens except when it shatters to even gloved touch. each moment i ignore a million little signs, holding out for the one that will affirm i am gold in the rust. seems i haven’t given up but I guess i never really tried, now i’m hanging on, waiting for the moment that finally put me a mile past the brink of it.
It echoes, follows in parentheses, these lingering fellows—placating what need not be retained. Act III is all that remains of hollow halls. How it got to those haunts— redacted, breathing in only its echoes. Kindred lacks the identical; identity conforms through misinterpretation, not records. Knife echoes watered down, (or aggrandized). Lie dormant, sweet gutter folly, return, stirred up, a shadow of its former self—an overproduction of its being.
Joe is a writer from New Jersey. My work can be found in publications across the U.S. and in ten other countries. My novel Caina (Mockingbird Lane Press) and my novella Smash and Grab (Books to Go Now) were both published in 2018. You can follow him on: @JoeAlba88