Per Ardua Ad Astra

If truth be told:

       Life is pain.

When you break down, just to pick up odds that you’re set up against.

Suffer vain, get struck again. 

Bleeding out like a ruptured vein. The rapture of flames, preordained fractured leaves you badly scathed.

There’s scars.

Then there’s an emptiness deflowered by my chest stains.

Writing these two clay breads, riding on a tomb, in my darker days.

Lost my bro, about a few months ago. Should’ve been me, instead the skies let the thunder roll. My doc says that’s just aching in my frontal lobe. 

Walking sunken roads.

Gloss over, layers of pain i feel ashamed are retold.

Must be the undercoat.

I spill the ink, to heal where the pain constantly grows.

Slipping through the fear, that one day i may be brave enough to end it; put the spectacle on hold. 

The weather changes, don’t get caught up in the sun exposed.

City concrete walls are tall, especially if you cry out, wishing you could feel less alone.

The radiotherapy magnet rolls makes my eardrums forlorn.

If there’s a silence i can borrow, let me have love that i may not find tomorrow.

Trust few.

Even if they’re under oath.

The heavens hold my pops, and those who’ve passed that you’ve ever known.

They shine on, lighting magenta purple flowers and hold.

Freddie used to tell me, 

       “Hold that in your soul. When the dark days come to take your glow.”

                Sun shining, on my head.

                I just wanna slide through my blue days. 

                Just to remember what our days. 

When storms come and pass.

You’ll weather the forecast.

One day i will not be here, so let the torch pass.

Balance, still clutching through uncertain road maps.

Sometimes i wanna kill myself. Rip my liver out and hang the boots of this battle over survivor’s torn flags, battle scars.

But my poetry unearths only remarkable, never a troubled soul. They ask me to write a book, and let the story be told. That no one’s lost who’s not forgotten.

Who buys pain?

Who learns how best to dwell, dies well? 

Who polishes the graceful moon, whenever my mother prays?

“Who heals the healer?” everything my daughter craves.

Husky voice of my sister calling me from lands far away.

And laughter of my little family seeds when they miss me for days

Flawless, the scans reimagine my concept. Something like the scent of ancient forests and roses, whenever am feeling hopeless, something resiliently potent. 

Raise a glass, even though it’s empty or fully halved. Memories and experiences outlast. As i watch life roll fast, departing with the tidings off the shore fast.

But —.

I’ve never been adorned graft. This is the strange fruit that hangs low, no matter how further in the dew my tears waste among the blades of grass. I let it exploit me like unwanted milligrams of chemo, pills winnow in the winds with the chaff.

“Say the skies are beautiful when it’s looking thunderous. See the wonder, man. All the misfortunes, the devil couldn’t outnumber us.”

Lumberjack, felt a lot of pain when we had to carry for Marie another heavy wooden craft.

“One love,” he used to play Bob. While we graze across the hills.

Saying things like, “As we wonder man, seek peace in sunsets. I know life plays your cards through some tough decks, and damn stress. Stress, we building up our success. Foundation so strong so we never bend. Fight for family to the bitter end.

Never knew these were his last words, nearly left my whole face typing his eulogy, cherry-picking pictures to place on the page. 

If the exchequer could change fates, i would gladly bank on my stubborn breath just to give you longer days, I miss my brother Fred.

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