We bloody each other by tearing hearts out
from behind breastplate's weak spot. Grab a fistful.
Eat it warm, still pumping. Nourish our
egos this way. High false fronts, decorated fancy
like a western town street. Only a movie set. Nothing
behind the facade but props holding it up. The bad ugly
never turns back into good again, no matter the
proffered charms, favors, or money. No camera lens caught
the poetic lines of a life colored with lyrics, once shining
with rainbow music. A poem panting, a song unsung,
a maybe masterpiece crumpled up, ditch side. Gasping unnoticed,
it bleeds, spilling a useless puddle in the brown flour dust
unable to grow anything anyways.
The victor grows strong in that infertile
spot by sucking seeping red strength
up through the straw of his growing weakness.
Being neither artist, creator, nor
savior - narcissistic need compels his thirst.
Charisma parades, but has its own false front
held up by dry rot. Hollow strength, limp with cowardice.
Lack of empathy - even for himself - keeps
him impotent, full, yet painfully
unable to get relief from reckless rage.
Stiff neck rectifies frustration; it supports
keeping up appearances.