Off The Shelf

On this night all things fall off of the shelf and gather in me to conspire. In a whirlpool of flailing voices and flaring nostrils I am spinning willingly toward a red-lined reaction. I am a combustible combo of intuition and inertia. We tell war stories to stay close and drink wine to stay warm. Is this really happening? Were we in that barren land for 11 months, sharp as a razors, heavy as a hammers?

Here we are again, so distant from who we thought we were and so close to becoming the echo of an explosion. A flash, concussion, smoke and mangled debris scattered throughout the memories of the past, reaching like a fog into the ruins of an ancient burial ground, overgrown already with weeds of indifference. Silence will tell.