people, the fallen, the saved – we are all human – blood – bone – nerves that make our pain; yet that pain we experience is uniquely our own. each circuitry is woven into our being, our ticking is precisely timed to how we are wound. who wound me? what happens when the clock strikes that chime that is to send me beyond, into eternity, but this body fails to yield. is it one who opens ourselves to power of one. are we really condemned to hell if we capture our own castle, raising the bridge to a remote level, raising a red flag so that any passer of our humble reservoir knows entry is not for them, not for any child of the living or dead. how does evil walk among us and live if we are the fruit of love.
He casts his thick arm about my willowy neck until it breaks, a swollen fruit from the vine of goodness, overwhelmed and heavy with a sun spiked bounty, a juicy nectar of sugar and time. It can be sacrificed for a table, to fill each lead goblet with rose and blood. I shed this blood so that you may enter into a fantasy of head dreams, a talisman not of stone, a liquid born of synergy.
If he, however, took me early, before I was ready to be plucked from mother root, a baby of not yet birth shall taste bitter in your mouth causing each tongue to swell and recoil. spat out that sip of evil. His hands have spilled me all over the earth, leaving nothing, nothing but… but what couldn’t be a ticking, a mindless turning of wheels behind fog scape mirroring what used to be.
The screams build silently, holy; a chorus of Christmas Eve hymnals. Suddenly, Mary’s plight seems so real.
How we wish to cast away this planted memory that takes its claws into fallen ashes. The saved will murmur, she gets what she deserves. How dare she dangle, eve of a split moon, casting her bright light among the cloaked brethren. She was, I was, just twisting in an autumn wind, playing a coin toss in my head, wondering if it lands heads, then we shall be dead… wont we?
Little did I know the fever dream would awaken into a world pulsing with rot. Stench of his unwashed soul heavy upon his breath. There was not enough midnight left to blank out the white glow that spilled through the broken panes, past the white curtain now torn, dancing a dervish of pending disaster.
His breath upon my face, a mixture of acidity, blood and rye. He had tasted his own blade, licked it dry, its dull edge cutting a lie across his tongue in red.
Passing traffic was not loud enough. The street echoed no ones footsteps. The was no need for him to cover this O, this scream.
he yanked a life out of me. he forced a life into me.
Some say the seed should have never planted if the land was truly sacred, a pure valley laying for a golden kiss. Yet, it now thrives in this hollow cave that was once a body in musical harmony.
Down the hall, the only music that plays is the chime of Grandfather’s treasure. Its sounding recants the nightmare, every midnight; every half hour; how many ticks of breath have passed since that last night of innocence sleeping.
Tonight, the coin toss is upon me. It shall be no ones game of fate but mine. They’ve already buried my mind, this ticking being destroyed how many hours ago with written condemnation. This nation of forgivers, forgive me, as I’ve forgiven you. There cannot be two of me. There cannot be one if there is one in memory. It, too, must cease to exist.
I know not what the tomb shall offer for this transgression of mercy. A question, whispered with blue breath, I posit to you:
how can he convict a child who could find no ending to the horror composed as her original story…