Knight’s Night Out
You write
your memoir
of shattered mirrors
and misconstrued epiphanies.
for every recollection,
every doubt that
binds your
mountainous limitation,
to the top of the
summit of debt,
retaliations still sings
as it’s proliferation stings,
dissection
of affluent
memories persist,
onto life’s projection
where you tip-toe
towards your demise,
a modest dignitary
forever monetized
within life’s monotony,
where life is a lease,
any moment could disease.
Inked into our membranes,
are words transmitted,
through our rife.
We reside inside
our calligraphy,
where you recite.
Your memory is a mic
your future is a turnpike,
but the past remains
a present
– a precedent
only a wish could represent.
The Weight We Carry
We painted black
into backpacks,
revived our
medieval retrievals,
and clasped onto
our adamance
that sunk deep
beneath the bag,
where thorough
thoughts of
fervent promises
transported to
a portal of
prominence.
When we gathered
our optimistic
pleasantries,
we prevailed
like concrete
shadows,
but our fossilized
memories froze
under
the clock
that echoed
faint haunts,
as we traced
our uncertainties
that paved
to cemented
cemeteries,
where
we follow,
but never lead.
When we cleansed
the palate
that painted
only faithful
melodies,
we withstood
our melancholy
tragedies
as we
evaded our
casualties
to combat
the disdain
that punctured
the tapestry
of a gangrened
dancer.
We Bloomed
like flowers,
and watered them
until the spring
turned to autumn;
memories that
blossomed
melancholy
melodies,
and when
love walked
on bridges
we began
to break
by the
hook that caught
onto our shirts,
where we descended.
Still we arose;
we were maps
that traced back
into the wilderness
and we eroded
from our sacrilege,
sentences written
of trials tribulations
and labored distortions.
As they swallowed
their accelerants
and grabbed dismay
and sold it’s Adsense
to the relapse
that plummeted
into yesterday,
we still peak
to re-capture.
and re-hash,
decades of last
years ghosts,
so within
a century
our ancestry
could
create an abstract
memory
where dissipated
pilgrimages
pulled their
weight
like sacrilegious
vestiges
as they tore off their
appendages.
It’s never too late
to rekindle the seams,
that took apart
our shovels,
and buried our dreams.
by Chris Ozog
Christopher Ozog is a 23-year-old writer who currently resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He has previously appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, The Commonline, and Crack the Spine and has work forthcoming in the 2015 winter Crack the Spine Anthology.
