For what can't serve

The smooth slide of a story 
unverified, unburdened by proof, 
a whispered wind changing the landscape 
of a life not examined. 
 
Loyalty, a frayed rope, snapping 
under the weight of convenience. 
No ink dried on a form, 
no cross-check of the record, 
just the urgent need to build 
a wall of manufactured truth. 
 
To sculpt belief in the shape 
of a passing lies
to bend the ears of others 
until they hear only your echo, 
your singular, shining assertion. 
 
This is what it is, you insist, 
this edifice of air, 
this opinion lifted high 
like a brittle flag in a dead calm. 
 
But the wind shifts, you see, 
and the further notice comes, 
a cold pronouncement  facts
not on paper, but in the marrow, 
a sentence of quiet ending 
for another soul, meant to savor 
only the salt of suffering. 
My mind, a tangled wire now, 
cannot find the clean thread, 
To  map the logic 
sudden,turn into darkness. 
Where is the summoning paper, 
the official knock that demands 
an accounting, a sworn answer? 
Only the silence of closed doors, 
the smooth, impenetrable surface 
of being stonewalled, 
a solid refusal to engage. 
And the face you wear, 
the name you carry, 
a costume so convincing, 
I almost forgot to ask  
Does  the birth year match  
the  ID of the legend,
 solid 76
The refusal to recognize
 repetition on and on 
let the venom flow, 
keeping your disspite  fit
Keep talking the empty words, critsizing
the chatter that fills the void where we can be. 
 
You are the only piece
in this landscape you have ruined, 
a solitary,  fragment, 
convinced of your own necessity.

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