Fault Lines

Words can't kill,

and that knife missed me

by a hair or two.

I was prepared to rue

the day Death leaned in to kiss me —

there's seeking a thrill,

and then there's

wandering, in nescience,

into the avalanche path

of the psychopathic hive mind.

Classic me, lacking prescience.

It takes one to know one,

but I was harassed by ignorance

and knew nothing, and,

therefore, was nothing.

Yet, still,

I saw them clearly.

Gripped with bombastic

thoracic tightness

(is the heart under attack,

or is it doing the attacking?),

I raised an anxious,

cowardly palm

into the air,

sick and slick with fear.

I tried to remain calm

as I inquired,

"Do I belong here?"

The destructive, frozen landslide desired

deeply to fatten its ranks,

swallowing me in an instant

and giving no thanks.

Its midst and surroundings

were sour and cacophonous.

Distant,

barely audible beyond the din

of our collective, allochthonous

disaster,

the panicked cries of the assailed

rang out but failed

to reach us, muffled, as

many magazines' worth

of cannon fire might be heard

from behind a mile-thick wall

of pillows.

Sure, the smoke billowed

above, easily spotted,

but our eyes were rotted

as our brains,

arraigned as we were

in ruination and decay.

Left to ascertain

the cause and meaning on our own

as the landslide crashed to a halt,

we constituent parts, forever altered

and rendered influent

in both thought and feeling,

beheld the influence

of our frenzy and blasted,

reeling,

onto our separate ways.

A maze of guilt and shame

awaited which could wilt

the most vibrant of spirits —

twists and turns

and lack of help.

I knew how, with practice,

to forgive others,

but could I ever forgive myself?