scintilla

it is the start
of new beginnings-
of a new month
and new murders,

but hush, sweetheart,
don't get ahead of yourself

a pyrrhic victory
doesn’t outweigh
the laden effects
of trying to purge
riven cartilage
of a seraphic spirit--
left as a martyr
against the doctrine
of a titan

the body count’s rising,
and it’s all your fault as far
as the poets are concerned-
fault is romance, of course,
but only in a tragedy.

ravels of hair follicles,
wrap around your creased palms,
as you wrench the mind field
of dilettantes.
an explosion of chroma
splattered over a canvas
made of pavement.

the problem, you think, is
there isn’t enough color.
there’s never enough
blue, purple and reds

while she screams, because
bruises on the dead never heal,
and the blood will never
fully wash out of the cracks

poets and writers will romanticize
the whole ordeal, but it is always more bloody
than history books give credit for.
it’s the ghosts that won’t rest,
that’s what worries you.

and those same silhouettes,
riddle the whittled corners
of sandpaper edges
and fading battle wounds.

the apparition of the past,
never really disappearing
from the remembrance
of your static subconscious.