Self-fulfilling prognosis

Recitation, hopes in his performance run in a stream
of overused paint.  Too many layers, too many pricks
of stimulation and too much makeup on an aged and
tired actor deterioate the deception... it goes unseen.

Emotions lurking in shadows catch the light of day. 
Their vapors rise from a boiling vat, and their constant
tapping on his thin-skinned shoulder won't allow him closure.

They reach from behind to pull at the cords hanging
from his chest, ready to hurl him on the beach,
to be lost among the moist grains and salty laps.

Diversion is his alibi, until its bittersweet overrides
its sweetness, leaving poison on his lips.

He is not ready to be that one-eyed sharp instrument
thrown in the giant heap of cured vegetation grown
in the fields, hopeless for someone to find... nor is he
ready to be found.

Certainly he is to blame, as he sits at the table serving
his guests.  Long has he held this banquet and gobbled
and gorged. 

In delicate manipulation, he has contrived hollow satisfaction
and plays the part, being ignorant or choosing not to know that
the main course of the dinner is his heart.

In silent reclusion he revels, as he passes by admirers stoning
him with praises.  He graciously bows and performs,
continually dismissing progress and passes through phases.

No rest... no peace, anguished voices will not cease.

Memories carry daggers that mangle the present
and his empathy of the past continues to evolve,
which doesn’t allow access to the here and now,
as hindrances accumulate resulting in absent resolve.

Never mind his pitiful state... he’s content, for now.

On paths of long ago he abandoned deference, burying
the remains in a shallow grave and repeating his ancestors’
deeds... he has yet to return, retrieve and restore.

Meanwhile occupation of his time consists
of rutting around in shit, anticipating the shiny,
brass key but only finding small helpless globs of potential...

The larvae suit him, explaining his agitation,
as they sit atop the hill and bellow out insults,
judgments and fragmented puzzles
that fall short of comprehending ears.

Communication usually escapes those with wet wings,
as he cannot fly high enough to reach those soaring truths,
only to flap around, on the ground, where the lies are bound...
entangled in the mangled carpet of the turf’s roots,
there his words are bound.

What will correct his question mark posture...
what will draw him away from this focus?

The particular beating organ he holds in his palms,
he reads its story repetitiously as the shaman reads
the goat’s entrails, hoping for a better omen.
Give him a blue heron flying from a running course
of water or a snake on the road instead of those flies
that hover over his carcass.

Those messengers of Beelzebub are lured in
by his radiant, rank putrefaction.

He never once thought of himself as a pond in the pasture,
usually a tide, or a river, never that stagnant, algae rich,
cattle toilet out in the grass. Somehow, he found himself
looking at his own reflection in the green water,
as bloodsuckers from the air and under the surface latched on.

Standing in his own soiled discourse,
he raises his chalice of feral yearning and states,
“Cheers to that which doesn’t kill us...”

Someday he’ll be one strong son of a bitch.