she is a master at her craft a builder of extraordinary skill employing language deftly refined and meticulously set, her words one by anxious one rising as another wall emerges into the darkness of my days prohibiting useless dalliance, for all must have a purpose, even this matter between us that once glowed with passion, this once glorious act of love now extraneous to a fault
she has taught me much as the months have passed and I have struggled to find reason in this structure she erects, assuring myself that her silence is warranted by my own petulant brooding, her distance the result of my loathsome features— of course she does not touch me for who would choose to fondle this aging fetid flesh of mine— how much easier to keep building in simple untainted silence
I have learned my lessons well I abide within these walls
I have become all of the silences you have taught me to keep
[Thank you, dearest Allison, for your incredible talent at always discovering just the right words, which I then gleefully borrow from you.]
Again they come before me these constant spectres eyeless, mouthless, faceless, pacing across my ragged breath as I watch the fading sun, weary wanderer, sluggishly dip at last beyond the hills, no longer caring for the day.
Ravenous, these ghouls sally fourth, palely pouring across the brittle sky, more voracious they than I had ever seen them, swiftly consuming the fractured sun which bleeds yellows and reds across the angry heavens.
I knew them, I am sure, I must have, for why else would they shadow my days if not for the chance to accept the offer of my self to sustain their petty vindictive needs, feeding oh so grossly on the flesh
that once shrouded my heart.
[Once again I must thank Allison for her inspiration, having drawn from her “black” certain images and words that fed upon my thoughts. I highly recommend her collection of poems, Vein, which you can find here.]
Mystical memories tremble this heart imparting moments of will that once filled me with impassioned zeal to live, to love.
I believed then, with near perfect certainty, believed in the veracity of my hopes, trusted in the capacity of this me to be as good, as grand even as my ambitions had painted me in my own thoughts, long since faded.
But the memories are there still, only greyed and frayed somewhat, torn by the incessant tumult within a soul that could never quite be sure it even existed.
I know people who compose lists that lyrically lead them from one bright aim to the next, inspired by the very abundance of their most meaningful dreams.
In the dark of the night alone I carve my moribund dreams into the very flesh that drips over my dubious ill-intended soul.