Today a task was sent, urgent request for a house built of stone, marble, or lime where I, and all that I love can find rest, and an hourglass was set, throat choked with time.
Enough to savour these days I’ll soon miss, where I can stretch myself out on the lawn, eyes closed, body exposed to sun’s slow kiss, deadlines, due dates- synonyms for a con.
Plenty room remains for these joy filled days, why, instead, mire myself in misery, let these tasks, like wolves, feast on malaise, when I could enjoy this brief history?
At last, the hourglass holds one grain of sand, not enough for what any home demands.
Bound to the creative, a specimen caught in a display case rising to the occasion, ambition devouring empathy, emboldened by the grating- unrelenting desire, clawing to be unique not among many; but a singularity of identity and zeitgeist, destined to ignite curious tinder in dormant minds old kindling of artifact, made genuine fire in spite of artifice; neglecting the self to etch adventurous tales into the glass.
Spotlight; me: peace starved, hunger met by darkness, Not sated – stoked. Become bullish fire, horns of flame, eager to gore an audience of errant toreadors.
Stage Direction: “Destroy” “Murder,” Scene – Infinity, enter: monster (me). Raze the set to rubble, fade to black.
House lights on, Reveal: Wreckage, horror, me. Not the fiend – but the human takes a bow, for all the vindicated matadors, dead eyed, slack jawed, red with the weight of requital, as thick curtains fall, secreting away every exit;
I leave, but linger, haunting the now dimming theater, where shadows stretch and merge, a figure lost in canvas. seeking peace, and forever unseen.
It’s not my house, not my place, yet still I insist.
Here, beyond threshold, like a curse uttered under breath, breaching pursed lips, that would condemn if pressed, I dissipate into the darkness, ears strained – eyes starving.
I hear the nothing, pull back, stretch taut, and snap with the sound of a house aging, then reset – repeat, snap again. My heart follows the rhythm, and still plummets a counter melody.
From room to room, with echoed steps of borrowed time, I agonize like winter wounds bleeding, chasing ends that defy coagulation, surpassing cold with warm history, but in the end settling for a conclusion in between.
Every corner hides nothing, but I feel something – and comprehend neither.
Shrug away the saddle of gravity, and float free through this reality, unearth the joy of a liberated view.
Up dissolves, always retreating, down wrestles, always pulling, Neither are accountable to you.
Forward insists on forging a destination, while all else is mired in hesitation, and, as need arises, can be made anew.
Hold fast to your curious nature, be bold with choices that bring you favor, in the variety of forwards to pursue.
I know the weight of that pressure, but nothing can hold you down, even when you feel the most tethered don’t be so shook as not to look around, find your forward and push through.
Proud was I to be one amongst many, the tireless river and we, the fish. A school of us united against any, through life, intent, and fellowship nourished, various desires but the same wish. Until the day that place was robbed from me, poached from a healthier reality, swimming where they were sedately floating, casting lures that shattered serenity, passing in boats with muffled gloating.
Ripped from the wall, like muscle stripped of skin, A grotesque shape thrashes with savage intent— Vengeance not against time, but stagnation itself, Its cry an absurdity, a proclamation of pain.
The sound pounds the air into submission, Tempers my ears as iron meets the flame, Grinds my thoughts into dust, scratches on glass— All resistance futile, every effort the same.
Still as clouds on a memories moonlit night, I wait, Watching as it lurches closer with mockery in its gait— But the misshapen limbs, obscured by shadow, Twist my mind from body, pulling them apart.
Is it motion, or the void where motion should be, That contorts reality into something dark, sharp, divided?
All those years of emptiness, a tomb; inside – gestating such violent dreams, coalesced into form, condensed, collapsed, and unleashed ever more as tortured screams.
Calling out across an uncaring void, to cull the ambitions of lesser forms – ignite the dark expanse with fire unseen and raucous solar storms.
A bold pearl is suspended within eternity, a mote of dust that trembles as it falls, the ceaseless waves of horror crashing, impressing their desperation against its walls.
The tiny planet steels itself with hard mountains, calms itself with vast sanctuaries of ocean, and soon suffers the anguish as a comfort; finding growth in the soil of those emotions.
Life then finds purchase after eons of false starts. It rises, one rung at a time, until it thrives, standing astride the eternal fires and bear witness, to the struggle of existence, and survive.
The pearl is set aside for ideas to take their place, the sound of suffering out amongst the stars muted by the growing transitive bustle of wagons, ships, planes and cars.
But the screaming never stops, the oceans secret the agony away, holding it in as long as they can, until met with cooler days,
When contemplative rain falls like bricks, confident in an end the earth can easily dissolve, but is met with Discordia’s ancient anger, and the horrors of time forgotten and unresolved.
With terror, precipitation rises as a squall, to retreat from the known and unknown, evading the languid web of fatalism, rather than become another sterile seed sewn,
The exchange of current and course accelerate, until the violent motion is more than function, birthing a determined prophet of intent; Helios’ blind messiah of destruction,
lumbering towards a pregnant shore, where years of engineered fertility, could only now germinate malevolence, sprouting anxiety, poverty, vulnerability.
The maw of the storm stretches for miles, carrying with it a spiteful inevitability, amid the storm’s callous consumption, solace nestles in life’s tragic tranquility.
Grow Gray With Me 