"With no direction home..."

The heart of a bear

beats inside my chest

blistered 

and weak
while damp cigarettes
pound out the time
with each breath,
little red suns
lighting a room
outlined only by shadows
cast onto peeling
plaster and brick,
weathered by
years of misrule,
light from signs
hung and forgotten.
We scream
throw punches
and fuck
violently to resolve
our differences,
but mostly
we just toll
in a silence
that marks the miles
between you
and me.
Each man is
a phantom of
something he used
to be, before he
lost a bit that
dies when it's time
to say that you're
a man.
I am growing into
something I cannot fully
understand.