A Plea, From Within the Jaws

I find myself confounded, often, as to the nature, distance, and direction of the blissful road the soul must travel, to find truth, beauty, and contentedness. With swirling, frozen winds by night, and tepid, bewildered desires by day, I feel myself pulled to each end of the infinite abyss; The abyss of mortal imprisonment and divine, consuming fires. Should I become a cloud of ash, and mock the silent stars, as a swarm of arid embers? Or, should I rest at the bottom of the sea, only to sink further, shouldering each crushing burden, and complete my metamorphosis into pale, apathetic stone?

Neither?

Then what, I beg, is the alternative?

I could tease each ambition that flickers in my eyes, as one would tease the naivety of a child. I could lay my heavy heart upon the breast of a beautiful woman, and we could breathe fresh, romantic fires into this dark world. We could birth a freshly tenacious, confused soul to travel alongside us, until we depart, leaving the traveler alone once more. I could heal wounds, teach minds, and console hearts. I could tend pastures, build monuments, or write symphonies. I could spread my soul, like a blanket, and cover as much as this earth as my strength could warrant.

Or,

Should I simply swim in rivers, nap in fields of wildflowers, and sit, pensively, atop each mountain peak I can reach? I could sing with the birds, dance with the wind, and return each kiss the sun lays upon my brow. I could do all of this, and I could do none of this. It’s all comfortably pointless and painfully divine.

My fingertips have never met its surface, yet the texture pulses through my veins. This thundering tempest forces me into shelter, yet, with each vicious flash of lightning, it illuminates the path. It’s always bellowing out thundering laughter, each time I hear its voice; Only after issuing its challenge of “proceed, if you dare, for you must, you precious fool! Immerse yourself, frail, immortal spark, amidst the crashing waves, starving fires, and mocking skies.”

Each time I hear the call, I’m paralyzed. The passage of time coils and sinks its fangs into its own tail. It flails, like a cyclone, destroying every horizon that would behold such a crucible. Until, eventually, I am so alone, so consumed, and so drenched in vicious absolution that my eyes weep fertile tears of disgusted revelation. Each drop that falls from my face moistens the consecrated ground. Each falling penance feeds a verdant sprout. They grow into serpent vines and gritty, curling limbs of moss-choked sapling growths. A forest reaches from the barren dust and clasps its hands around me, as if it were lost in prayer. Then, at every sun soaked edge of life, a flower blooms and bleeds out every fragrant sense of pious bewilderment my frightened heart can beat from my fertile soul.

The world begins anew, and I’m still confused. Must I be obliterated to gain sight? Must I curse my humanity? Where is the road, the one road? Is it in the grave, or among the stars?

A Sharp Truth

So she is gone,
And what are you left with?
Pieces,
Of floating silence,
Mocking the stillness of the room.
A heart beat,
Insects under your skin,
And a prodding imagination
Of what hands might touch
Where you have been.
The smoking, steaming screams
Of regret.
Another piece,
A chunk falls to the floor.
Writhing and begging for mercy,
With none to be had.
Just a moment trapped in time,
And a slight, insincere consideration
Of suicide.

Cynical Sunrise

Morbid reflections,
shimmer in the morning dew,
rising new with each day.
As sick obsessions,
stalk the silent stillness,
basking, fearless,
beneath the rising sun.
They beg and they plot,
to invade and lay claim,
ever progressing,
swallowing slices,
and sections of the periphery.
A creeping morning glory,
consuming and blooming,
into floral patterns
of perverted beauty.
Soothing and tempting
the unwitting mind.
Chilled by the mist
of the poisonous,
crushing weight
of time.

A Whisper

Do you believe,
that gods can bleed?
Have you seen enough,
to conceive of,
divine mortality?
What would it mean for us?
We who must develop love
Of vulnerability,
Of blood,
Of death.
All so we may draw
our final breath in peace,
with our minds,
and our dreams,
drifting
in the cosmic seas
of infinite night,
and lovely,
lonely starlight.

The Face

It calls, but never answers.
It takes, but never receives.
This hollow, enchanting dancer
only comforts and deceives.

It glows for the sake of shadows.
It bends the will and mind.
This siren’s song, upon the gallows,
kisses hearts and swallows time.

It dwells deep, in tasted tears.
It leads men to wasted years.
Hollow screams as judgment nears
It is the face of faceless fears.

Pulp Dream

I wish I could break myself down
into simple blocks.
I could see which pieces were deformed.
I could finally understand what was broken.

I wish all the people walking around would shatter
into piles of parts.
I could sift through them and see
if we were made of the same things.
I could finally know if I was as alone as I feel.

I wish this uniform world would compress
into neat, little cubes.
I could pick them up, study all six sides, and find where I end
and the rest begins.
I could finally paint a picture of my place in the world.

These clean divisions are never born.
All the thin lines I’ve drawn have been torn,
twisted, cut, decayed, burnt, returned, and reformed.
Vines grow through the mortar.
Every attempt finds disorder.
Flesh stripped
raw, it slips,
as I try to climb a border
that doesn’t even exist.

Fear of Roses

Why do you frighten me so?

You are but a delicate rose.

Your thorns have withered and fell,

and yet still,

I dare not risk your touch.

Your scent is a subtle, distinguished beauty;

a stimulating sensation.

Your fragile elegance begs of me

quiet admiration.

I could run my fingers across your leaves,

and watch you for hours, swaying in the breeze,

but plucking you, and keeping you, It seems obscene.

I fall to my knees and shrink.

In the shadow of your form, I fear disappointing you

more than ever before.

One day I will pluck you, and place you in a vase.

I’ll sit at a table, and watch you whither with age,

but I know today is not the day.

I sit at my desk, the air thick with regret

That you’re swaying in the breeze and not asleep in my bed.

Seasons

The cloudless, sunny skies of winter lend a crisp highlight to the washed out, barren colors of things slowly dying. However, the death is not eternal. Unlike the death we speak of when we think of the initial concept of death, this particular death is inevitable each year, and yet it is succeeded by life. One cannot think of winter without imagining the spring that will follow. One cannot assume that the dead tree on the hill top will never flower again.

I find this strange, but for reasons that are not obvious. It seems cliché to view the dead of winter as simply the season that precedes the subtle vitality of spring. In many ways, it is indeed cliché. However, what I find particularly strange is that, during summer, one does not think of summer as that which precedes death. It would seem, in human understanding, that life is not that which precedes death. Summer, as it is typically portrayed, is the suspension of death and a symbol of life. It is the cure, as if death were something to be subdued and negated.

What is obvious is that the seasons are a continuous cycle, contingent upon earth’s rotation around the sun. What is not obvious is the human essence we lend to the phenomena. If you place the seasons on the face of a clock, even in a scientific sense, it would be entirely appropriate. However, if you apply the seasons as a metaphor for the lifespan of a single human, it has limited effectiveness. Spring would surely represent birth and infancy, Summer could represent a life well lived, Autumn the later adult years, and finally Winter, a cold conclusion.

But humans don’t have a second spring. We don’t live a life that revolves in seasons. When our winters reach their peek, we never get to feel the frost melt away, nor have the promise of the rejuvenation of spring. We die and it is eternal. Why do I ruminate on such nonsense? I’m not sure, but I can’t help but wonder, how much of our physical world do we inject with our human essence? There is no humanity in the changing of the seasons, and yet there is such deep humanity in our understanding of the concept. What else are we making human?