trials (the great game)

no mouth can cry out in praise

while his hands sing in diseased desire
for if a man is divided against the work of his hands
then any speech in his mouth falls flat
like notes of sound played by a novice
working with sweaty inexperience on a machine of supposed beauty
where practice does not make perfect i intersect
and the sound of furious exasperation rings out to fade away
dangle me from the rafters and speak empty promises
i glide into the pit to find my watery words
how can a mouth praise and curse you
how can hands work and play god
is there an end to apathetic nights
pour the blood from my palms and grow some convictions
halfway between death and existence is no home to build
everything fades in the end
nothing good can come from these trysts into the deep unknown
 
everything i love is dead
the lights shine softer when seen through empty eyes
these echoes will ring on through empty hallways
conviction and satisfaction
groaning in eager longing for revelation
for blindfolds and paper hands to be cast aside
i’m a child in the reflection
counting stars and battle scars
wondering when my hands will build a house on the rock
instead of waltzing endlessly between apathy and murder
growing in ways that make the monsters that haunt me
slink back in shock and ecstasy
all is lost when i am lost
all is vanity and vapor
passing like sand through my quivering fingers
seed sown into the rocky path
deep and wide and salivating in its patience
come and see what secrets lie in my depths
let gravity take you and have faith
 
i spit these words like empty shells
i fear that i may be a storm-blown ship
trying so hard to find port within my own hull
futility and desparation
eyes find sight
mouth seek truth
dear god let my grip hold you for one more minute
battle the pain and prove the impossible is not
but your sweaty palms slip from my sweaty palms
as the death of unloved love collapses under the weight of great tragedy
and gravity fulfills its earthly task
take away these unearned hours
thieves and vagrants are we all
thieves and vagrants will all ever be
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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