Tag this poem
Fatal –

My stunned
And mortal rhythm

From a heart
Which spoke
In tandem
With raw verse
So short
Of breath.

Each day
These final words

Sought relief

By telling
Nonsense

Thinking minds
Should grow
Enlightened

To one cause
I’ve deemed

Unsure:

This lethal dream
Called art,

Or that lie
We pray
Expresses

Such love
Too unrequited
For real
Proof
It should exist.

Believing now
I’m sick

While ignoring
Every answer
As some monster
Fear created
Deep within
My swollen
Head.

How aches
May never
Cease
When their pulse
So damn
Discordant

Throbs distinctly
Within tempo
Of this cadence

Marked
For death.

Each vein
Blue and pronounced

Like bold phrases
I might suffer

Protrudes out
Above both
Eyelids

Letting doctors
Laugh
At truth.

They never
Could agree
On what symptom
Was authentic,

Which pain
Was more than
Lyrics

Of that song
I played

Inside.

And yet
Their diagnosis
Falters hard

Where music
Lingers,

Though I contest
Barely matters

Knowing fate
Had other plans.

Stuck souls
Will go and read
These old ravings
As pure gospel-

All my suffering
Unintended
As their bible
Of lost
Faith.

With that
I can agree
Is a suited end

Unquestioned.

No rebel
Wins
From trying.

I always
Wrote
Half-assed.

– J. Pigno

Rest now,
Little bird.

Such pain
Goes not
Unnoticed,

As I find you
Curled
On the sidewalk
Chirping aloud
For my help –

Besides that curb
So rough
With rigid lines
Which manage
Those cars too large
To notice
What life
Is struggling
Near.

How streets
Have claimed your wings,
And passersby neglected
This tiny heartbeat

Startled

Still fallen
Off old trees.

Where nature
Has no place

And bloodied beaks
Are common

From careless men
Whose passage
Tear nests
Apart
Like wind.

These final cries
You speak
Must prove
There is some
Semblance

Of meaning
Within anguish

Expressed
By tiny noise.

In contrast
To those roads
Through crosswalks
Ever teeming

With crowds
Of huddled masses

Whose ears
Just cannot
Hear.

– J. Pigno

What Dante
Didn’t realize
Is that hell falls
Where we stand
As a place
Which turns all children
Into men
Who burn their toys

And trade such games
For knives
At request
Of the aging furnace
With need
To fuel some meaning
Among what flames
Will rage

On smolders
Made from dolls
Like blazes
Eating trinkets
Inhaling dreams
Left swallowed
By tongues
Of fiery beasts

Called progress
Or due time
Beyond this day
We’ve wasted
Abiding heat
Through money
Amassing wealth
In death

While paints
And colored tales
Speak heavens
Out of waiting
When art remains
Insistent
Our faith
Keep cooler hopes

Expressing play
As God
Still innocent
Though abating
These sparks
Which stifle memories
With resistance
Held in prose –

This cross
I long to seek
Despite how tinder
Kindles
And ruins words
By torment
Of young virtue
Growing old,

My past
That’s nearly lost
Every moment
Reason suffers
Knowing hope
Is giving purpose
Through each final
Act of fun.

– J. Pigno

These days
On silver knots
Are a long and tangled
Mess

Precious
As they are brilliant
Across long
And shimmering lines

Where threads
Get snarled by fear
From the hooks
We always carry

Catching lives
Mistaken
For dreams once thought
Our own –

That sudden pain
Unseen
Or breath which
Barely seizes

What air
Has cost us greatly
Just speaking truth
Out loud

While wasting time
With dread
So feelings
Pass discretely

And bliss
Of captive moments
Eludes this choice
We make

To remain content
Near death
At the brink
Of heaven’s waiting

When faith
Has quiet answers
For questions
Too damn bold

Our troubled souls
Predict
Through pain
Perceived as needed

In bodies
Fallen victim
Growing old
Not staying still,

Losing semblance
Of their faith
Along meaning
Once unraveled

After sinning
Without reason
Besides hoping
They come loose.

– J. Pigno

There is no
Human affliction
That a loving heart
Can’t save
From chains
Of thankless suffering
Or bondage tied
With dread

Like chairs
Which have us fixed
To the ground whose dreams
Keep moving
Though legs
Are hardly needed
For escaping
What stays clinched

If fear
Takes second place
When falling down
Means standing
And flying high
Has purpose
Just inches
Off this dirt

Despite how eyes
May stare
Where crowds alone
Will gather
To admonish those
Whose triumph
Is one foot
Out their door

Or fingers
Pressing keys
So speaking clear
Can manage
What thoughts
They long to translate
By freedoms
Within grasp

Abiding loss
Through trust
Obliging hurt
While learning
All hope
Is sheer persistence
In achieving
Purest faith-

Teaching lives
They cross
Yet touch
Without us knowing
Their gifts
Have lifted angels
And conquered
Demons whole

Beyond
Such burdened means
Like baggage
Sitting heavy
On the backs
Of sainted neighbors
Revealing God
Next door.

– J. Pigno

Sometimes
This empty page
Is the only ear
Which listens
When a voice
Grows coarse
And desperate
From years
Of being unheard

Still yelling
That withered plea
Through verse
Not hardly spoken
But written
Down
In context
On margins
Missing their lines,

Like the kind
Our lives define
By an absent rule
Or meaning
Left hanging there

For emphasis

To denote
What space
Exists

By virtue
Of losing faith
At the cost
These phrases carry,

Each one
A subtle murder,

Each pain
Dramatic
Pause –

Where proof
Is feeling numb
Beyond such bold
Descriptions
Despite
How words
Show pictures
Expressed
Without consent.

Those lifetimes
Between terms
Are God’s
Disgusted grammar,

His book
Of violations
Lost among
Each sentence
Told

Dealing judgments
So unfair
As what blankness
Carries vaguely

These obscene
And pale
Emotions

Called expression
Left behind.

– J. Pigno

I wouldn’t trust
Your doctor
Or a man who says
He knows
Like some god
Whose test is failure
For the chance
Of rare success

From prayers
Not often answered
By caplets
Swallowed weakly
In mouths
With spoiled senses
Where silence
Dulls their taste

To ensure
Such little faith
Within these souls
Left desperate
At the hands of lies
Transparent
As one pill
Which fixes fast

What pasts
Are left unsettled
And dreams
Still barely noticed
When truth
Is an absent footnote
On studies
Peer-reviewed

While theory
Holds no weight
If pain
Empirically proven
Drives our science
Hopeful
Without its need
For proof

Believing numbers
Yield
To realities
Unexpected
Being glorious
Tools of heaven
Through each change
Ambition makes.

– J. Pigno