Nothing stings in quite the same way
As when you sting yourself
Forgetting the purpose of your boundaries
Casually placing them up on the shelf
You had them in hand for a good reason
And that good reason, you’ve still got
Once you remember why you need them
You’ll marvel at how you forgot
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
To strive with the burden
Of what the next hours might bring
To have wrestled daily
With the fear of losing life
To be saddled with the dread
That there may be
Some indeterminate sentence
Of interminable, inescapable life
That one is somehow
Condemned to endure
To flounder helplessly
In the drowning pool
That sits between
These two feverish fits of delirium
To have drunk the madman’s wine,
That laced broth which inspires
And conjures those horrid devils
Known as fear, hope,
And love
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
it does not require
very much square footage
to store melancholy
it fits neatly
inside of an eye
discouragement will
fit perfectly
in the bottom
of one shoe,
ennui in the other,
and you’ll still have
wiggle room
for your toes,
as you walk around
no place special,
all by yourself
loneliness doesn’t
take up much space
it fits easily
into a single
empty hand
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Not the brightest of men,
I have walked into walls,
Chasing pleasant illusions,
Elusive pleasures
But even I,
Tiny bean brain that I may be,
Have enough sense
To stand back from the flames,
To stay clear of fires that
Rage beyond my control
Red, blustery, passionate,
These rueful waves of the sun
Crackle against the marbled rings
Of Kronos’ cold steel slave rings
The hard master yields nothing easily
I can summon enough sense
To feed myself when my bones
Become brittle with hunger
But I cannot make a meal
Out of the dust and dry reeds
Of another’s feverish pangs
There is no sustenance in another’s
Temporary fits of dissatisfied craving,
The ghoulish haunting caused by
Dwelling in the discontent of
A desiccated shell, which they are
Reluctant to abandon
When war swings its broadsword
At the throat of its enemy with full vigor
And the enemy,
Equally skilled in the art of slaughter,
Parries with a great sword
In just the knick of time,
At a perfect right angle,
There will inevitably come
A clanging sound most awful
Sparks will pour off steel weaponry
Sweat and cruel words will fly,
And the thirst of demons is slaked
With someone’s blood
The only question is, “Who’s blood?”
The answer is always the name of
Someone stupid enough
To stand too close to the fray
Such a someone does not
Keep their name very long
The surgical procedures
Of iron, hatred, and discontent
Removes the name like a tumor,
Placing it in a small wooden box and
Burying it in the yard, like a dead bird,
A former family pet who
Gave up the ghost
Except, that the bird was well-loved, and
Grieved for after its passing
The name of the fool who stands
Between plumes of martial fire
And the incontinence of the unhappy
Is quite unceremoniously
Peeled from the imbecile’s face and
Dropped in a shallow grave
With all the careful consideration
A person observes when tossing
A banana peel into the garbage
A miserly liver of life,
Who cherishes comfort above all else,
Will angrily slit the throat
Of one who offers them a cup of wine,
When the skinflint is busy
Swearing to the deliciousness
Of the sand in their parched throat
A plate of fresh fruit and venison
Is smacked hastily from the hand,
When offered to the prisoner
Who enthusiastically requests
A second helping of gravel and worms
No, it is far wiser to step back
Stay clear of one who is firmly committed
To the cause of consistency,
Merely for convenience’s sake
Let the dice, lightning bolts, and swords
Fall where they may;
So long as it is not upon your neck
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Thin, diamond-eyed weaver
Of rhythmic, pulsating speech
Spells spill from forked, cunning tongue
Whispering secrets that never fade
Of things that are only just out of reach,
Union, knowledge unknown to the young
Ruddy red splatter on the worn blade
Spirit piercing flesh and taking root
Dew sits lightly on the petals of a flower
Serpentine speaker, knower, deceiver,
Thief in waiting to purloin the loot
Beneath the cover of the witching hour
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Author’s Note: Yesterday, I learned that someone passed away in my apartment building (presumably within a day or so of when I heard about it). I had never met them and they hadn’t been living here long at all. Their death was apparently not unexpected; I was told that they were in poor health before they ever arrived here.
The weird thing is, they lived in the apartment right below mine. But stranger still, I had occupied that apartment myself, up until just a few months ago. When my current unit became available, I took the opportunity to move because it’s quieter on the top floor. While I don’t think I ever met the tenant, it was a brisk reminder that death is never far away.
Death is right under your feet
But try to put it out of your mind
There are chores to do and
Demands to meet
So, try putting it out of your mind
Death is coming up behind you
It is wise to not make a stink of it
Since you cannot stop it, and
There’s nothing you can do,
It’s best to try and not think of it
There beside you, Death hovers
I suggest you pretend not to notice
It will pounce on nervousness,
Any weakness it discovers,
So, just casually appear not to notice
It may approach you from any angle
You are bold, but Death is much bolder
You can tell it’s there by the cold, stale air
That envelopes your throat to strangle
Death patiently perches on your shoulder
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 