I am struck. Struck across my chest. Struck, and it is climbing its way into the coils that keep me suspended in space and time. What am I seeing? Merely shock? Or something more telling...Could I possible be touching nothing? Hearing silence, tasting isolation, seeing blindess. Could the blindness I am forced to follow percieve with even more acuity than I could ever hope to obtain, know exactly where it is taking me.
Memories.
As Perfect, glass vases filled with flowers blooming into every shade of desire.
I poured myself into them. To give them breath. To lose myself in their depth.
If I fold myself up tightly enough (to lose an arm into my chest, my eyes into my knees) could I exist soley in those memories?
Or is my sentence to tend to them until even the plea of fear refuses to save that beauty.
The rain pours from the unreachable heavens
Tapping me on the shoulder
And the arm
And the cheek
Coaxing my thoughts this way
And that.
Whispering to me
Calling me by names
I didnt know I had.
Cleansing me completely
Seeking out the innocence I lost
In the grayness
In the stillness
In the brokenness
Hiding through out the words,
entwining the artist and the child.
Sending hope, as a messanger,
into the smile of one who knows.
Throwning aged pain into the back of the closet,
along side a forlorn, empty, chocolate box.
Creating a false stillness,
because the tears won't come.
Learning to forget
but praying, he doesn't.
One intense truth fighting to be released
so the pencil is sharpened, again.
Praying for calm
yet hoping for chaos
Chaos to filter through
to hide behind
to falter in.
To continue destroying the evil
along with the good
Without the annoyance of prying questions
reality hanging from those words.
Yet even then truth
soaks through
Gathering in little pools
at the edges of my thoughts.
Small enough to be passed over
with a film of activity floating on the surface.
The anticipation of solitude
provokes a distorted panic
Of this thing,
which can hardly be as concrete as a thing,
that is so exposed and vunerable.
a sentiment I do not understand.
The knowledge of a sin
that will be commited again.