Your years were a kind blemish.
A velvet lined box with a stucco exterior.
Your cigarette smile tinted the perfection of your happiness.
And every time I gave you my heart,
you would exhale inside my passion
with the chemicals of your regret.
When songs were sung like smokers cough to desperate lungs,
I figured the tone would escape from your eyes—
and blossom like a lotus tomb. To where,
recovering from recovery would be something like an empty table.
hungering for a new start—
for something that is palatable.
I can’t remove the sin from your skin,
the ambush of your character and your mind,
is something you’ll have to retrieve yourself.
I know the cost of existing is almost too unbearable for you.
But when the climb of day doesn’t hurt you anymore—
You will rise from your coffin, close the lid
Keep the ashes of your thoughts in an urn on your mantle
and remember your resurrection.
as the face without a face.
No features, no qualities.
Nothing to make me think you were a sane being.
Ghosts in your eye sockets haunt your character of mind
what made you forget how to be human?
Like a celifane sack draped over the breath of consciousness
I remembered how to live.
But there was no reason, no purpose.
Just the fidgeting sweat pockets trapped in my palms.
This common cold of my heartbeat
And the drums in my chest are forever mute.
Levi J. Mericle is a poet/spoken-word artist, lyricist and fiction writer from Tucumcari, N.M. His work has appeared in multiple anthologies and can be seen in many lit magazines and journals such as, Black Heart Magazine, Apricity Magazine, Mused, Flash Fiction Magazine, eFiction India, Awakenings Review, University of Madrid’s literary journal and more.