Sidewalk Chalked
of scribbles and sanity
Step, step,
stumble.
Step, step,
stumble.
Who paved this path?
Upon whose sagging shoulders
may I lay the blame
for my spectacularly lame
rate of progression?
Stimulated by aggression,
a simulated impression
of a bloodhound prosecutor
erupts from my tangled throat.
The accusations, mangled, float
discordantly —
soundwaves hobbling on broken legs
with a bone to pick,
alone and strict
as stone, so sick
with fecklessness and rage.
A reckless hemophage,
I dodge, duck and weave
accountability like a plague,
fragility and vagueness
the rusted girders of my abrasive,
glass abode.
A loaded gun,
imploded sun,
ego bloated, shunned
by rationality.
Harsh reality,
an asteroid impact,
shatters the lonesome void, intact
is everything —
where once the very foundations
were hollow, hungry chasms,
explosive revelation and the reactionary spasms
beat the earth into existence.
A sudden world unfurled
seductively,
in rippling, concussive blasts.
Out from the cheerless
concrete walkway,
peerless, complete hallways
of verdant wilderness
yawn a simple, unmistakable message:
"Enter!"
A step off the tired path
into epiphany's aftermath
is as a frigid morning bath
to a clouded mind.
A shock to the body,
taking stock of the soul
as possibilities unfold
which had lain hidden behind fear.
Grinding gears
drink up fresh oil,
activating a mortal Tesla coil.
Cold and sleeping steel
brought abruptly to electrifying life.
The petrifying strife
of the past
encased in stubborn geodes,
crystalized and tamed.
Calcified, the blame game
has lost all
self-imagined potency,
my inner argument
at last grasps cogency
as hate stops making sense.
Then love starts making cents
and squirreling them to dollars,
until I'm sitting atop
an inexhaustible stash
of unconditional compassion
and I've forgotten
what I was angry about.
About the Creator
Jacob Sherman
The desire to read, and perhaps to write, should be cultivated and nurtured with care throughout every stage of life. For my part I will inject what strangeness and truth that I can into our written history. Expect no constants but honesty.
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Comments (3)
Wow! That was brilliant! "Calcified, the blame game has lost all self-imagined potency"
The “reckless hemophage” stanza has to be my favorite part of any poem I’ve ever read! Fricken fantastic.
Nice one 😉❤️