there is no cure

silence settles over my heart like dust upon old artifacts,
worn weary by the passage of time without use or purpose,
arousing low whispers from friends whose faces are painted Picassos of pity and admiration,
as if their sudden outward display of emotion in this waning instant
could placate pain and rid me of disdain.

fuck you.

you who held your head high,
as if King Midas’ touch had been bestowed on your right hand,
while the left turned whatever it touched into rock and hard places,
you who spawn broken &
bitter boulders that have tendencies to crush hope,
and pin outstretched limbs
reaching for anything to lessen the pain.

there is no cure for what I suffer from.

there are no magic words that could ease the vice grip upon my soul,
no liquid elixir that would elicit the abolition of old levees and sand barriers,
that surround my psyche like slave shackles on wooden ships,
no stroke of hindsight,
masquerading as good will or remorse,
could spark the fire that had burned within me;
once driving steel and soul like coal powers the locomotive.

i am alone in this, my friend.

cast away toward modern purgatory like gutter children in Sinclair’s jungle.
you see,
there are no hands to grasp,
no gospel to preach,
no love to hold,
not from some omnipotent deity or earthly prophet,
nor from your own morality driven conscious,
bent like light to fit some manic dystopia.
there are only roses that smell like shit,
and expectations that never meet reality’s handshake.