Line After Line

You cut me but did you all know it?
I loved you all, tried my best to show it.
Seams I pieced together from where you did not know you were broken.
All I want, silent contracts, to hear those words so seldom spoken.

You see, hope rises in me quite eternal,
Tossed around your playhouse ignorantly infernal.
Only the broken can piece together the one and only, truly chosen, All we get to breathe, what I allow us to, beneath my deep talent pools frozen.

I bleed out to heal your gashes and your scrapes,
Only to both reach for man-made measuring tapes.
Like a golden coin buried in dirt, prepared for an unsought and unknown future,
I wanted you to be my never promised, hero, poet, beast, muse, and suture.

I’m sorry but words no longer mean anything at all,
When your Holmes turns into Moriority, Reichenback calls.
Out here still cannot figure out just how we all will one day get to a home,
Writing manic words only half soothing, line after line, tomb after tome.
Thomas Spychalski

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