Unwritten ROARS never get heard

I will turn wheels and crack open day,
kick out the sun's yolk and make meringue clouds,
and when you roll away, still
bleary-eyed and clasp-handed
I will spring away and fall back
I will whip like winds on your window.

For want of a breadcrust smile
I will light the fuses on my brightest tricks.
I will give you blossom snowshowers
I will offer you starry daffodils and twinkling snowdrops
but you only care for narcissi
and wormwood.

A fool's hope-- to wait, to wander across ideals, to seek justice in the irreconcilable void between the rain that falls on the righteous and the dew that condenses thick on your windshield. The white glare of headlights, the sickening lurch of friction losing to liquid and inertia, the brilliant flash of a whole life lived without much subject matter flashing before my eyes-- I know what's going to happen next. I wait for the crash, expecting the shattered windows and pow, the airbag in my face. I'm too panicked to be serene and too awed to be terrified.

This is the shortest distance between the two points: first we take a long car ride to talk about what's wrong with us, now we meet death, the dangerous pickup truck, pseudo-grinning with it's rusty flat metal grille. We connect the lines to finish the conversation we had only barely started. In a few seconds, I see every word from your lips; I'm frantically trying to lip-read you. It isn't going so well, and that familiar sense of failure is there. I only remember it as being an awake dream because halfway through, shrapnel interrupted the projector between my ears and split my skull open.

-Ron Adams
(formerly theshadowcaste)

When I reached my arms up and entwined them around your neck, like the rose bush growing along a fence slowly making its way up to where both are comfortable, I winced as the thorns pricked us. I was so, so simply happy to be in your arms and feel you and, and your back; I would've done anything for you. I did do everything for you. The complex web of lies that we constructed around our rose/fence lives, the lies for others and the lies for ourselves, once again making us believe that anything we did, ever, was right and moral and should have been - it clouded our perfect image until no one could see in, until we couldn't see out. The web blocked the sun, leaving my petals to slowly wither and die and fall to the ground in a gray, crinkled mess, and you, stiff as a board, couldn't bend over to collect my pieces and fix me. We were isolated and wrong all along, from your first wasted chip of self to my first thorn. And when it got to be too much, when the darkness clouded my life and I crumbled and cried and fell against your stable self, I realized... there was only a fool's hope we would survive, anyway.