boaz [wanderer/fin]

b o a z;

I am told that I am not afraid of anything.

This scenery, ever-changing, is simply ground saturated with the anxieties of others— their footprints are lost paths on a journey to find a fear truly defined. They do not see the balance in lines of flow, a connection from paths otherwise nonexistent. Men see boundaries that are not their own; they do not find the point at which they break because they are afraid of the space that lies beyond its reach of jurisdiction.

What lies beyond— isn’t that beautiful, brother?

i.

(“she told me i was great, not due to talent of my own accord but rather a lack of respect for the greater good.”)

Reputation and record hand in hand, laced fingers fitting the palm of planned perfection— I do not see the will of a manmade legacy left behind in gold dusted iron rusted. I am no longer the steel bindings of a body that see order in the ornate. The flow of function was marred by a desire for something greater than this heart could provide.

I forget what it feels like to find my pulse.

Deserted by a dying heart I can only find respect when I ask for it myself, and believe me, this is not a request I can bring myself to make often.

ii.

(“there is no time for a thought of mismatched caliber— the gun has already fired; the bullet has been shot”.)

I have had my finger on the trigger for twenty-two years and counting; a passing day is another bullet in the chamber and I can only promise those passing by that each is simply another blank. Blank thoughts, hollow threats, empty promises— all loaded into the barrel of a gun I can only shoot once. Target range of impact slim to none I have hesitated far too long; promised myself of taking the next second of opportunity only to waste my breath on the proposition.

Told time misfortune is the heaviest bullet left in the chamber.

iii.

(“this transition too great— i’d rather fall than fly.”)

These wings steadily melting— I’ve been flying too close to the sun. An egoist exclaimed I do not see the rays of golden swords striking, slicing through thin flesh and revealing a heart beating faster than the speed at which I fall—

Regardless, what’s a few broken bones, to a hollow man?

The ashes will be swept up with the passing wind— at least then flying will be an option again. Skies too bright and ground too bare I long to linger in the space between; whittle my bones into arrowheads and strike x’s against my skin.

Call me lost; call me wanderer; call me dead man walking.

iv.

(“this doubt too heavy— i am drowning under the weight of a truth i cannot compress.”)

I am filled with an ocean of second-hand thoughts and doubt disregarded. The tide rolling in with the morning sun— the walls are painted blue under the pressure that consumes the last dry places of my mind. Saturated simplicity I cannot see the space in front of my face as anything but muddled.

Refreshed, rejuvenated— I panic when I feel water settle in my stomach and remind me of the mornings when even the ground was afraid of the next rain.

The monsoon season does not cease to exist here; it simply wanes and waxes at times of its own pleasure.

v.

(“this cold heart ever dropping— negative temperature; mood mirrored.”)

I have lived for the faith found in fall leaves, in changing colors, in the temporality of what lies at my fingertips.

I do not think I could believe in eternity if I tried.

The summit of a mountain is only meant to be surmounted once; the view is no longer worthy once the snow has been tainted by footprints that linger even when the new snow has fallen. This destruction can no longer be played as a second hand of deceit.

I do not wish to leave a mark on this world; the destruction is too great to find gain in the galvanized.

vi.

(“she asked me how many lives i would live by choice— i told her none.”)

When I buried her, I wondered how many lives she had longed to live; how many tasks she had left unfulfilled and placed upon shoulders that were not willing to receive the burden.

She was a woman of technicolor— never deceived by black, white, or any shade of grey.

She promised me that this world was more than what was to meet the eye; that I could find something more if I dug disbelief out of my veins and replaced it with whatever I found when I opened my palms to something of a softer touch.

When I buried her, I touched her tombstone with closed fists.

vii.

(“we’re all going to die, it’s just a question of how.”)

I have longed for the final moments for far too long; found promise in the idea of a compromised life lived in a timespan yet dwindled. I have seen the flow of a line drawn straight from mind to heart— I have traced the line myself.

When it cracks, I feel my skin long for a covenant I cannot fulfill— the promised land lingers too far on the horizon.

I have counted backwards as long as I can remember, reached the lowest points before even considering what lied above my own mountaintops— I have surmounted to the success of a legacy undefined.

Anonymous solider of the unnamed war; bury me where I cannot be identified.

viii.

(“this breaking point— isn’t it beautiful, brother?”)

Snapping bones and a brittle mind— what lies beyond no longer needed I toss aside the seconds that remain.

I plummet.

Lingering words on the edge of a paper erased I will not leave a last testament; will not leave my name plastered upon the ground I have treaded.

My mother was a lover of color— how ashamed she would be of her polarized son.

When I buried her, I buried the blue sky, the sunrise, the autumn leaves, and the space between the horizon and her grave. I laid aside every last remnant of reminder that this world was more than she could offer it— I’ll take the blank space any day.

When I reached the point where fear overtook the color red burning within my chest— well goddamn, wasn’t it beautiful, brother?

[ ugky ]