It was not alone the dubious humanity-denying unicorn that proudly pointing adorns her shelf, nor yet the unpretentiously playful patterns that wholly unrestrained ranged gleefully across the walls of her hearth and heart and home.
The carefully crafted colors mischievous sparkling, the music that deftly swam through his thoughts, the snow that fell on the streets outside as sighing the wind whispered peaceful promises of hope while lovers clutched one another ever more tightly.
No, what commanded his thoughts—most peculiarly most incessantly as time drew on and the dawn distant silently sullenly wondered why he stood there still when night as yet a breathing broken rest no comfort could him afford while the world slumbered—
was simply this: that as snow fell and melted below and the stars grew dim and disappeared from view, yet still he ever wakeful longed for the one thing he lacked the courage to imploring seek despite the eager urgings of his pleading plaintive heart:
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.]
Instead, aging shadows whisper a cacophonous symphony most angrily composed, scattering a thousand bitter moans like shards of shredded metal crashing bit by bit by bit to the ground around me, cutting through my flesh leeching the blood from my veins.
Why can’t I know the Truth anymore?
I have struggled to achieve even the slightest degree of wisdom only to fall flat on this loathsome face erasing youth, scored away by the fire of age and angst. I want to hear it again, need to exceed these too temporal boundaries and reach that beauty that only the blessed may know.
the angry sky crackles in cascading light
slivers of silvery fury score the heavens
screaming back and forth at one another
like restless women grasping at baubles
and brooches in a sweaty İstanbul bazaar
obtuse the city that slumbers beneath,
dreaming engorged of gorgeous flesh and
errant adventures dully imagined atop
perilous heights impossibly attained in
the blink of a blind man’s roving eye
while I, courting ingenuous young lovers,
sip tepid tea from a faded cup and sup
at languorous feasts of uninspired tedium
while imparting my delightful gibberish
in the guise of noble guileless precision
in the face of which even I, vainglorious,
must acknowledge that there is more grace
in a single cacophonous crash of thunder
than this pathetic fool could ever muster
with all the pompous words at my disposal