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.”

a question of when –

when does the line

between

temporary

and

permanent

no longer exist?

when will the facade become the visage?

when will the streaming blood

of

existence

flow

into

a

pool

of

death?

when?

photo

Blood-Soaked Breadcrumbs.

Stopping at

the ledge,

I lean over to see

a life left behind

of you

a future ahead of me

and, it isn’t pretty

not a single thing;

standing out against

a backdrop

of teardrops,

raining down

pelting skin;

Fingers curling tightly,

insurance of

my own grip

chambered,

by my own hand

precisely,

for such a trip

see my footing slip;

crumbling

boulders,

beneath my feet;

have I actually

fallen ever so,

blindly,

into the lap

of my enemy?

Loaded gun,

pressed against

a temple,

shots commence –

my heart,

so begrudging –

my eyes,

so disbelieving;

of the stories

that the truth

is telling me;

Leaving trails of

blood-soaked

breadcrumbs

in a soggy line;

it goes behind,

a familiar time

of martyrdom

that unfailingly,

and unsparingly

will stake claim to

whatever life’s

left of mine.

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.