Standing.
I fall within the
building’s shadow, graced to just be alive.
Is it, then, my lot in
life
To be consumed so
willingly?
My eyes are dry and I am
humbled by the experience.
This is the real moment,
when we as Man come to the realization
That we are not as limber
as we once thought.
I, however, am different;
I turn to my place of solitude
To find refuge when all
others look to the neon.
I am relieved to be home,
simply for the sake of being
Surrounded by what is real
and alive.
No others can come before
me
For my brown eyes are
enough
To send them away,
desperate and unforgiving.
My Muse has led me here,
for she knows me well
And I must plant the roses
at her feet for such a gesture.
The slow and cold leak
finally crawls inside of me
To feed on whatever I have
not used yet.
It is a an extension of
what I used to be-
A shell of a woman who
lost her way and refused to find it again.
My dried out skin is laid
silently on the rock
By the place that gives me
light,
An almost heady desire to
fall to my knees
And prostrate myself on
the ground as a willing apprentice.
My Muse stands behind me,
watching my moves,
Making sure I am truly
what I claim to be
And still so much more.
My blood, her tears,
mingled carefully,
Are placed in a bowl as an
offering
To grant me acceptance,
denying all others
Who lack enrichment and
hedonistic suppliers.
I would rather be poor and
in this current state of pheromones
Than to wallow in my own
glands, fat and glistening,
Praise be! Jealously has
its advantages.
The door is opened and I
step in,
My face caressed by the
cool and musty air
That seduced me so long
ago
And yet I still cry when
it takes me back
To when I was still
feeding from my mother’s breast
In hopes of a better
world.
I am no stranger, here,
yet, desolation,
Afraid of my own shadow,
never again shall I be spineless.
Are you too afraid to step
forward
To accept that which you
can not escape?
Shall there be more,
others like me
Who have tasted of its
flesh and hunger for more- literary cannibals
Tearing apart Dickens and
Shelly and Weldon Kees with bare hands
And nails that once
caressed lovers and children’s cheeks?
I can feel the strength
slipping from me
To only be replaced with
something older, darker, more discordant
Than what I was ever used
to.
She stands behind me
still, her arms scented with roses and pearls
Are now linked with mine
in an effort to keep me from screaming,
Saints above and below,
how I deserve thee not!
Be still, she tells me as
we walk, be still
And allow your mind to
simply think.
Can you do that for me?
Will you show me where you
threw your dagger
To defeat the foe that was
never there?
Shall you offer your liver
to me be pecked out
By a bird that winces at
the sound of a child laughing?
Shall you give yourself to
it to become the monster
You so very much desire
and loathe?
I am torn but I continue
to walk,
Her words whispered are
drenched in insanity
And literary sexuality
that makes my knees buckle,
Cracking along the floor,
distant and hollow;
Am I already here?
I long for the dust to cover
me
A baptism preparing me for
the trial by fire.
451 – a number so heinous
That I disown its very
existence.
We walk, she carries me, I
love her
But I am no longer hers; I
lay my body down before it
So that it could see I was
no longer afraid
But merely curious to know
If I could ever bleed
again.
My skin is now covered in
words
Written by people who
never knew me
But they gave me the stale breath I breathe
today,
Keeping me alive, keeping
me moving,
Keeping me a sinner to my
own worst shadow.
So, then this is it.
My world is here before
me, ready to be seized
And treated with emotions
I never felt on my own.
This, then, is my reason.
A sanctuary for those who
have none.
19 March 2008
