Rusted Ribcage

Etched into the palm of time is a personal clock

ticking off each second

as it happens to pass

with individual volition.

Each finger, screwed back on

leaves the fist as creaky

as the release.

They don’t write much anymore 

but what can be certain

is the night with no moon

is favorable for those

who deny any sort of wrong doing 

in the face of atonement.

Seeking forgiveness 

must be everything 

opposite to selfish.

I do not want to feel better.

I deserve to be

chest deep 

in the manicured muck

of my own making.

I should have a tattoo

composed of January tears

and spring weather.

It will read,

“Love never knows best.”

The heart can pound 

against the walls of my

shale cage,

but it can never break free.

As such,

the hands must act.

As the heart beats blood

into the remorseful limbs,

creaking fingers must grasp

the iron handle of due servitude 

easing, as able,

the weight within 

other cages–

loosen rusted locks,

burn regretful seconds

tock, through to tick

cold as snow, soft as tin.

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