Weekly Challenge May4 – Duets – “Hell’s Hand Satchels”

Written by Mockingbird Down and Americana Injustica

“Why do we sit at this table, my Friend?
in the back of the bar behind the pirate’s curtain,
I believe that we somehow have each been,
on separate paths to the same trouble, again;
these kinds of places mean only one thing,
the scars on our faces are rather telling,
now let’s drink and divulge in our comradery,
but, why is it that your hands are trembling?”

“Don’t sip so fast, my dear. My hands only
tremble because of the quieted rage I have grabbing
at my chest. Can you see them, love?
The demons of the bastards and the whores as they
laugh and squeal in time to each others bleating?
I have brought us here, for clear and precise reasons,
and your scars will only serve you well by the time
the reckoning has begun. It is a very beautiful night.”

“Aye – you’re right; what a perfected, star-filled sky,
epochs in time, they still shine – a shrine to you and I,
a luminary mapping of the vengeance in your eyes,
a twinkling mirror image of the bastards that must die;
Now sit back and let your chains down, my friend,
indulge in the strength of our unity, once again,
we both know how it goes: it’s us against them,
in an infinite war for the Hell that we find comfort in.”

“You speak truth. I have grown weary of these chains
and the weight they add to my steps. My shoulders have
become accustomed to carrying burden of injustice; Hell’s
hand satchels; filled with the names of the hunted horsemen
who failed to do what we must do. But – I share this load with you;
my kin both in the infected shadows, and in the guileful light.
Intoxication it is, my friend, both of the mind and of the body.
Tonight we watch the stars unfold, and light the way for morning.”

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Chasing Demons

Mocking Bird Down

tombstone

It is more convoluted, than just
a throbbing demand for blood.
It is more labyrinthine than simply
knowing that I will stand, bloody faced
and victorious, heart pounding against
my rib cage. A reminder that the trophy blood
that drips from my hands, is not mine.
It belongs to one of the demons that has tracked me
for too many years, lurking. In that few seconds before
day becomes night, waiting relentlessly to swallow
whole the rare moments when I am able to
fall asleep with out first having to run my fingers
along the blades hidden beneath my bed,
just to comfort my mind before close my eyes.
The corpse, black and burnt, will not stand again.
But there are more where this one came from.
Its more complicated than positive talk and
encouragement. Its more complicated than
a patronizing pat on the back, telling me that
everything will…

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Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –

underneath six feet of topsoil,

bathed in the heavy suffocation,

of loosely strung illumination –

another silent burial site’s

flimsy paper lantern lights,

among the beloved already beneath,

primordial soup of bones and teeth –

a headstone: too heavy,

a secret: too kept too steadily,

a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –

chained to my chains for all eternity,

a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,

chained to both well-traveled,

and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,

we dreamt without darkness –

under the same stars,

that together, we once betrayed,

in a match’s quickly stricken,

enticing phosphoric display,

we struck fire to the paths –

from which we just had strayed,

never looked back, admittedly,

we ran until it all faded away,

into one, never-ending and exhausting –

ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.