Salt

The cold wind slinks into the corner,
I guess there's a storm tonight,
Rocking of a gentle boat just in sight.

But the view from here is one of grandeur,
To assume that you're seen before the ether,
A reflection through the pigmented soil?

Feces stir in swins that linger,
That sit and look around for what more,
Just lay down.

It all ends in slaughter,
But I know this,
I know that they do not care for me.

Not really.

The black ink,
Drips no further,
Than the cuticles on my finger.

Should I leave,
Or stay in defeated and solemn slumber,
Unwilling to be understood or protected.

In fear of seeing it to mean love,
Differentiate between blood and water,
The oil weighs thick on the dry beaches.

I see in the mirror my own reflection,
I see a fair resemblance,
Yet I choose to see more.

But there's nothing beyond the taps of a cell phone,
The thought often more valuable than a chance,
The things that writhe in the corner of my eye,
Cannot be satisfied.

For in the darkened mist of this opaque thunder,
And the rain amid people that chose me too,
I stand and I feel more pain than my days are numbered.

Because people,
and friends,
and the meanings,
It proliferates plunder -- self-entitled ideologue.

They seem to not care to see me besides this thing in life,
Which falls from the sky,
And clings to the metal now torn through my eye.

Because,
We are selfish,
And we do not care to see.

Or to worship true god,
Or to think in ways to benefit,
We step in grain on my brother's spine.

I wish I could make it better,
Through a stroke of paper,
But we are all too often born needlessly blind.

Because the salt that dries your meat,
clings to the metal of the rusted bars,
And forced eyes closed.

Yet,
Admitably,
I can relate and understand.

But I feel alone and without safe blood or water,
Though my therapist surely tells me to consider the hands of halfway beaten and trivial meaning,
Otherwise I do not have the strength to grip onto the ones I chose.

But there lies no god damn withered soul which stands deep in an ocean,
There is no light that shines so bright as to melt this salt in the water,
And my darkened blood tastes of its precipitated iron.

For in the decedance of the grateful,
And selfishness of the miserable,
I cannot find a reason to stand.

I just wish I had my god damn hands.