Bastard Child
09-12-2010, 01:15 AM
Sometimes I know I need to write. My body demands it: Something, anything. The feeling is beyond natural urge or compulsion. Yet, when I get down to it, nothing comes.
I am a perfect blank.
My brain stands there reeling before the great abyss of its own emptiness.
I shudder and hear - as a solitary pebble drops down into deep oblivion - a distant dull and muted sound, a hollow thud more depressing than the most melancholy ballad.
Death approaches…
…The cold encroaches…
…Upon our space, upon our skin, our time, our thoughts...
The hem of autumn’s dress as it slides across the land is caught up by a gentle playful breeze and kisses my blushing cheek in passing…
…The world is enshrouded now in a cloth of flaking skin, a soiled canopy of silver apathy, mashed together from clumped clay, dusted bones and soft sterile routine…
…Crippled flightless birds hatch from out our broken promises and seem as if to soar from these impotent lips, only to fall upon deaf ears…
…The womb of all religion bleeds its ashen rain upon my head.
Across the entire macabre landscape: hollow trunks, withered branches, crisp dry leaves and me - oh me!
The draining of life, however, is colorful; all its riches are infused into the grim but necessary process of universal repurposing.
The compost heap fumes with the promise of newness…
By my calculations, I’ll be dead years ago now. I’ve always been a rearward soul, my back to the son of all tomorrows burning on the horizon, a bright flowering cocoon…
…I merely catch at the shadows of the greatest explosions…
…My dreams, for want of light, for lack of tears: a forest of hollow trunks, withered branches and crisp dry leaves.
Rich now in color drained from the flushed cheeks of life as I enter the final stages of the process, new pictures emerge upon the canvas:
The spurned lover’s vermillion blade;
The crushed embers of the Crusades;
The grave’s brown brow, its lush green hair;
The orange beard of a cool grey dusk;
Purple eyelids, pale mauve cheeks, blue lips;
A deep black heart within some wanderer’s chest;
A white dwarf’s final hour on the stage –
Death’s palette is bold and extensive…
I am a perfect blank.
My brain stands there reeling before the great abyss of its own emptiness.
I shudder and hear - as a solitary pebble drops down into deep oblivion - a distant dull and muted sound, a hollow thud more depressing than the most melancholy ballad.
Death approaches…
…The cold encroaches…
…Upon our space, upon our skin, our time, our thoughts...
The hem of autumn’s dress as it slides across the land is caught up by a gentle playful breeze and kisses my blushing cheek in passing…
…The world is enshrouded now in a cloth of flaking skin, a soiled canopy of silver apathy, mashed together from clumped clay, dusted bones and soft sterile routine…
…Crippled flightless birds hatch from out our broken promises and seem as if to soar from these impotent lips, only to fall upon deaf ears…
…The womb of all religion bleeds its ashen rain upon my head.
Across the entire macabre landscape: hollow trunks, withered branches, crisp dry leaves and me - oh me!
The draining of life, however, is colorful; all its riches are infused into the grim but necessary process of universal repurposing.
The compost heap fumes with the promise of newness…
By my calculations, I’ll be dead years ago now. I’ve always been a rearward soul, my back to the son of all tomorrows burning on the horizon, a bright flowering cocoon…
…I merely catch at the shadows of the greatest explosions…
…My dreams, for want of light, for lack of tears: a forest of hollow trunks, withered branches and crisp dry leaves.
Rich now in color drained from the flushed cheeks of life as I enter the final stages of the process, new pictures emerge upon the canvas:
The spurned lover’s vermillion blade;
The crushed embers of the Crusades;
The grave’s brown brow, its lush green hair;
The orange beard of a cool grey dusk;
Purple eyelids, pale mauve cheeks, blue lips;
A deep black heart within some wanderer’s chest;
A white dwarf’s final hour on the stage –
Death’s palette is bold and extensive…