Another Unsure Prose

When those axes fell
the earth looked more human
another questioning look from
another unsure prose.

This day tastes different then the rest,
a comatose for the relentless
a redemption for the jaded.
Pull these cloud covers over my eyelids,
I do not want to see the story book ending.

I saw her trembling that night,
coddling a switch blade
opening up wrist bones like
the books I used to read,
I ran my fingers across each sentence
moving faster than my eyes could
stumbling out of the gates of literacy
I fumbled words and phrases until I realized
I could breathe while I read aloud those syllables.
She fumbled with her heart strings
undid the bow
and showed the world the shredded packaging.

She never looked more beautiful
than that night
as the night wrapped its arms around her,
cloaking her predisposed ideals
cloaking her synapses before
anyone could see them split like amoebas.

Those damn books now drip blood,
the world laps it up
and uses it as nurishment
I tried to, once,
I amended my pretenses
after I saw that I did not have the right blood type
instead I dripped
into another hip flask
and tried not to stare into the sunlight.

When I go
please
bury me under a mountain of silver spokes
and bicycle screams
the same one I fell off of
if that is at all possible.
When I go
take your time to read your eulogies,
do not let your fingers sprint while your eyes jog
let them commingle
and become one.

I forgot that lesson
along time ago.
I'm trying to relearn it now.