There is no part within us
that really works.
There is a hitch
In every cog,
And every wire poisons to the extreme;
Jumps to a conflict at the start.
There is never an end to this rewound craze.
We are all tangled,
And even the detached—
No one can,
and all the philosophy of the ancient world
Is rendered useless in our scream-stained faces.
We turn purple, and hit walls with balled fists,
but there is always the rebound, the hateful recoil
that hits us back just as hard. (maybe even harder)
We foul the air with our words
And kill the nights with thoughts;
And the time is whiled away to nothingness—
It comes back to haunt.
And this coral weaving through my lungs
The polyps infected
With heavy-lidded sorrow and the sleep
Of no resolution.
The argument is a beast
A nameless one, one with too many names,
One we love too much to let go of.
It goes round and round and round
And this top won't stop spinning the evils;
that there are such things as heroes.
(even with all the comic books we read)
after the usual family feud.