Monday, May 5, 2014

Seventy Three . . .

Fenestrated Darkness
by Stormcat

I don't remember dying, it must have taken place sometime when
I was busy
with my career or trying to become famous.
I discovered the death when
I noticed
that everything around me was rotting.

It gets later
I numbly watch a movie that I've seen before
like fifteen times
wishing I could just feel some joy
so I take the pill that's supposed make me feel
good again
seems just an anticlimactic approximation

Motion slows
A knee gives way. Blood streaming lets me know
I have fallen
There doesn't seem to be pain (as long as I don't try to move.)
How long can a man lay still before someone notices
cold seeps
Get up before the fire goes completely out

Deep Snows
cover me as ice blows a chill down the spine
Food forsakes
Spiritual rodents inflict the flesh
desire tortures the soul, with despair menacing
close behind
If I gouge out my eyes will the darkness hide me?

The sun
finds patches of blue through which to tease
Blinding darkness
reflecting cold between shadows of dark barren trees
blue and green evergreens release frozen white avalanches
random disintegrations
like toxic radiation, raining ice into the stillness below

Patchy fogs
Roll across the view like dark spirits haunting peacefulness
intercalation controls
moments of blindness penetrate moments of lucidity penetrate
moments of psychosis penetrate moments of memories penetrate
moments of moments
Whatever happened to the guardians of prosperity

Consumptive shadows
envelope, splitting the heart into a thousand
shards of stone
the void leaves implosive conditions sucking the mind,
scrambling the logic into pulse-less subsonic pounding.
Neuropathy advances,
generating the gelatinous shaking mass of rotting terror

Vultures descend
sensing the impending manufacture of perfect carrion.
Futile resistance
seems to rule, yet hope holds a window to salvation.
can the Universe leave it's child to flounder unprotected?
layers of fallen leaves
protect the delicate flowers of spring from a harsh cryogenic kill

It gets desperate
I reach for my gun to protect the essence of what?
undefined living.
or the life of a perfect yet grossly misunderstood genius.
can bravery overcome the fear of winning?
cannon-fire either
only frightens or kills. Intelligence only justifies all things, evil or not, . . .

Fire polished
implies tempered as well as smooth though the gross of the rough remains
in the surface
and structure substance beneath remains unchanged.
so it is with mankind, polished by the fire of life the soul remains the same
just covered over
with a melt formed glazing to hide flawed structure beneath

Clinging to solitude
hope finds both solstice and despair therein
life presents as multitudinous
iterations avoiding the windows to death
all the while death is but
the window to eternity.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

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