on good days

(The Final Awkward Jaunt)

On good days,
Everything ran through metal like water,
And decomposed like poignant rose petals,
Stinging the nose like sweet prolonged passage.
Under the influence of the prophetic moon,
Elevated me to metamorphosis,
Spun me like a dial upon the jagged rocks.
My temples ran dry while he left,
But always returning to drip and drain the roots from the soil,
Feeding off irregular patterns,
Then showed me his maturity,
And walked away angrily.
He wasn't the clay base of my creation,
Nor the stream of my consciousness,
Though still crude and colorless without his inept moods.
Too much to the reference can mar the attempt,
I still tried to make matters better
and pushing it downhill all the long with speed wheels.
My banter was never humorous,
To others it had been the masks of comedy,
Never seeing the truism behind my self mockery,
Because the golden plate was the symbol of the old cliches,
Forlorn and interminable.

I was proclaimed flighty on those good days,
So clear to slap off the dust in my eyes,
And the filth from the ground.
You shook your head and begun the mutual transport,
Strands of shapes that passed without reason,
While I blocked, lingered with a cigarette upon my lips.
Snickering without warnings,
That I always took your concern for granted,
Like everything narcissistic.
I didn't know what to expect when you stood before me,
Poised, looking earnest and rather vulnerable,
Then told me you were too tired to.
I remembered like tomorrow your words,
"Trigger-happy aren't you just a bit?"
Almost casually threw me some brown bag,
"Go well yourself Zen."
And just like that,
Depleted the art duct from its source,
Shrieking magical poesies.

It had been raw on some good days,
Smelt lean and familiar, even if they were incoherent.
I denied the demigod his snowball fight,
Allowed, or more so forced it to suppress,
What did I know about love?
Nothing much the happy goers laughed in my face,
Still philanthropic and lustrous in contempt.
Back to the orphanage I go, ran distressed in my rags,
Not frowning and brimming brilliance under the soot;
It wasn't the first time, after all, that I had everything taken from me.
Good byes were my best words to form,
But this time I choked, and spat out some last words;
We didn't spill the blood together,
I placed my head under the cleaver for once in recognition.
It wasn't flowing anymore, my reasons -
All for an instant's fit,
It faded knowingly and naturally
On good days.

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