because the wound there is so fresh

the subtle scars lying between health and unhealth, between what you have always known you never wanted and what you could never want less.
these scars dictate, they
in a sense
pave our decisions our emotions- the few that are invited, their chords we dawn by choice not defenselessness.
we have these little wounds, these traintracks between what we have seen and known and what we may or may not choose to revisit.
at first glance they appear hazy, some memories- yes wretched bloody comely sweet memories all welded together like cold steel unlawfully driven into the lining of the safe walls of our fragile choices.
You pray for opportunity when you're stepping on the golden one as these words are being written.
you wish for a resolution, one both fair and futile. a resolution of such a peculiar nature that it would only be fitting granted unto one or say two equivalently peculiar victims of circumstance.



drifting through the fog barefoot and blinded and something cold you feel beneath the dust. a silver line. a silver line amidst an assembly of identical silver lines, train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks train tracks. no train of course because that would be too humorous, too common to fit this odd chapter of the wanderer's existence. the tracks extend for miles, for months. you follow them, careful to walk beside and not on top of for each track seems to be offering some treasure of its own.
one whispers to you of the manner in which it's hair unceasingly interrupts.
another shares a photograph of a parking lot being rewritten in fresh fallen snow.
the 28th track down the line is humming a song, cant you seem im trying i dont even like it i just lied to get to your apartment. as a track, it is vocally ill-equipped and fails terribly to succeed in the correct expression of each individual note, strum, drum beat.
but you keep walking, staring at the tracks and as you do so you fail to recognize a heavy nothingness lingering in the N E A R D I S T A N C E.
you at last reach the very last track. you hear silence and see nothing and lean in close in case there is a photograph of bit of wisdom or torn letter stuck nearby. no. however something does catch your wild eye On the track. letters., hidden, dusty, in black ink, book antiqua font.
With a ready hand you brush the dust off and meet, eye to eye, a small word painted purposefully on that fateful last track. it eloquently reads,: Fuck.

perplexed, you stand and look around you. Where you have been where you have become to be when you have walked yourself with no one forcing you, No one telling you THIS WAY, you walked there. on your own. willingly. intrigued, conflicted, restless and real.
it begins to rain and all the dust soaks into the ground , small pieces of water rest on the tracks and slide down each revealing its own polished scar. an evanescent petrichor is present and fades, leaving you alone with the line of glimmering train tracks train tracks and that fateful nothingness patiently waiting a near distance away.
the nothingness clears its foggy throat and speaks to you, it says, finally, we meet, ive waited. My name is denouement, kind you. please, feel free, feel freely to paint me. for i am what you choose me to be.