Bootheels

The bootheels of my Legion stomp the rhythmn of my life. I'd tell you how it sounds like a song you might know, but there isn't one. That's why I'm obsessed with classical meter. I've always hoped for a bit of understanding from the sounds of the words I choose. Unfortunately, I am a miserable failure. They march on, with no harmonies besides the dust of English that crowds around their Roman feet. I've lost much in my attempts to synchronise my readers with the measured pounding found only in my head. Nothing seems to work. I can't translate the thoughts I have into a meaningful format. Nothing is as quiet as the great cat, and nothing is louder than the screams of my youth under the Legion of bootheels. The accented quiet moments mean nothing to you, and you're all so far away from my Legions that you can't hear their approach or their retreat. You seem to sympathize with the pain of my dead and swallowed youth, but I can't seem to tell you about the masticated moments, when Legion's bootheels crush my memories like a thousand molars crush a two-dollar steak. I can only show you the pictures of my youth, forgotten and departed, compared to the chewed entrails of my present. I scattered those entrails over photographs because without the square, the blood, and the rest, all cameras lie. Reassemble my alterations, and you'll find me. I'm screaming to be heard, not even seen or loved, just heard. My poetry can't communicate the rhythmn of my Legion's bootheels that conquered my life.