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.

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