“Plangent”

(I read this everyday to stop from stopping my going onwards) 

I was born hands first 

Ready to receive whom I will cleave to and keep me clean. 

Oh, the mud and the blood! So much dirt. 

I took my sin silently until provoked to scream. 

For them, it was confirmation. 

For me, it was a dance of flangered phalanges, 

An unaesthetic orchestic 

Out of rhythm, romantically random 

Out of place, even. 

But the world revolved around me  

In a shift-juggle  

Not unlike a rouletting Russian 

Anticipating a butterfly-winged buzz that almost always wasn’t— 

That is, I think, until today. 

For the kingdom of heaven’s at metacarpal’s clutch, 

Whether or not the index finger gestures pressure 

To pull so hard it pushes 

All I love and hate away. 

But then again,  

Why do this if I know for a fact that I’ll remain the jester of a court 

Lawless, yet cheated out of anarchy? 

I mean, after all, 

They’re not as loud as how they’re portrayed in the movies. 

It’s not a thunderous timpani, but instead a mere slap of the rim; 

A one-handed clap for a win too Pyrrhic for me. 

And that is NOT tr1umphant… 

So that is NOT how my omega will be. 

--Tr1umphant