His/Her/Their Rhythm

His Rhythm

A beat pulses in his stride;
as his footsteps fall
the ground beneath bends to swinging rhythm.

Marching steady with the noise,
his thoughts drive the pace forward,
quieting the outside world,
making the way clear.

The path toward his hell
is treacherous and erratic.

As he draws near,
his rhythm must be heavy enough to embrace
the guns of mercy firing through the night;
strong enough to ignore
demons that attempt to counter-inspire.

“I will not fail,” he says.

Then,
he halts at the open gates
satisfied.

Whispers he does not hear tempt him to enter,
his rhythm overwhelming.

Quietly he whispers back,
“No.”


Her Rhythm

Stubbornness swings lightly with her walk
a rhythm is borne of counter-reason,
of why not.

As her footsteps fall,
the beat is accidentally charming;
her spirit builds an effortless flow.

The journey toward her heaven
is foreign yet gentle.

As she treads the smooth trail,
her rhythm is powerful enough to ignore
the guns of rage firing through the night;
clever enough to embrace
angels that show the way.

“What awaits me here?” she asks herself.

Then,
she stops at the open gate,
curious.

Whispers she barely hears beg her to come home;
her rhythm unknown to her still.

Quietly she whispers back,
“Yes.”


Their Rhythm

Tragedy and delusion bind them together
forever.
Their rhythm is born of fantasy denied,
of near death.

Their walk toward each other
is too much to grasp.

As they come closer,
their rhythm is perfect madness,
love impossible to bear.

“Do you crave death?” she asks.
“Yes,” he tells her.
“Good,” she says, “you’ll need that too.”

They recall
the gates,
and how they once loved each other
enough to create a divine spark.

“You know I can’t live without you,” he says, “and I must.”
“Yes,” she agrees.

The kiss at the onset
as they understand
what must happen.

Whispers they know too well pull them apart,
their rhythm beautiful.
Quietly they whisper back,
“Soon.”