Swords with no blades

by Ralkkai

We carry swords with
no blades,
our love is a dozen knives
that we call a bouquet.

We fall for suicide in a red dress
and on our death beds
we give
all our regards to the living
who are too maniacal and
narcissistic to live.

We live selfless lies and wear synthetic eyes
and hide our mouths behind roses,
roses that wilt, roses that are replaced.

Lost by the days and weeks
we etch words into our minds
like headlines for the front page of impudence and depression
sold on the naked streets of Hollywood Suburbia.

Fate rests parasitic
on the red skin of rusty, bloody nails.

January comes.
December goes.
People wake every morning.
Some make it through the day.
Some become poets,
some become carpenters and some, vandals.
Some die too soon in car wrecks, others too late in dark allies.
Some of them make what they want of their lives.
Others live downtown and under bridges.
Children dream of things, which they will forget.
Girls will want to get married and have 2 kids.
Boys will become astronauts and firefighters,
police officers and movie stars.
Nobody wants to grow old and die.
Nobody wants to forget how to love…

January comes and December goes.
Some people make it through the naked streets of Hollywood Suburbia.
We are day old words.
We are day old faces.
We smoke to much and hardly say, “I love you.”
We stand wounded at Catastrophe’s doorstep
waiting for an answer.
Tomorrow, we will wake up in empty beds and crowded houses.
We’ll kill each other just a little bit more
and wipe salt in our wounds to remember that we are still here
and not there.
We will find somebody else to cheat on, someone who cares less than the last,
and we will go home after work or school or soliciting or loitering
and with our swords with no blades,
we will let our blood spill from our wrists in cold bathtubs
and welcome the night sky once again
like
fate resting, parasitic,
on the red skin of rusty, bloody nails.

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