The Paralympics

My soul lingers in the in-between,
In a runner’s stance towards tomorrow,
With cement shoes holding me in place;
The weight of the fat cat himself,
Whispering in my ear:
“Every day is a doorway to escape.”
The shuttered windows of the empty stadium,
Bear witness to my paralytic nihilation,
Crying at the starting line,
Too tired to jump;
Too afraid to fall.
I blink.

The paleness of that solar scion breaks my lack of focus,
Lazily erasing my adventures in Neverland.
S/He calls me to attention of the now,
With an overwhelming stream of photon-genic murmurs,
Like a siren-song inspired mosh pit.
As my eyelids retreat and reveal the scene before me,
I feel the starting blocks manifest underneath me,
And peripheral scans reassemble those sterile, empty bleachers.
A gunshot on the horizon signifies,
The sand-drops of the hourglass.

If you wouldn’t mind,
Could you take the time you find,
And hate me wholly?
So I might see myself,
Reflected back in that red-heat:
Pure with imperfections,
(See: self-constructed misconceptions)
Burnt away from this skeletal shell that holds me,
A gravely grasp holding me here;
Your attention, please.
Silence answers with winding winds,
Whistling through unclaimed seats,
Like a banshee’s distant wail:
“Whenever a door closes,
So does another chance,
Of a forgotten death.”

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