Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

Life’s Blood

My blood,

it lies pooled

at the bottom of

a well.

In darkness,

it remembers my life,

it speaks of the fire

that once burned within me

as I lay awake at night,

contemplating my destiny.

What is the future

once it is the past?

What were those choices

that we either make,

or don’t make,

and is the difference

between the two

remembered?

Ship Wreck

I am a ship

wrecked upon the shores

that are not of my own making,

though for years I was fooled,

thinking that I was at sea,

rocked as I was by waves

that proved to be malicious,

if only for their indifference,

Lulled to sleep by their rhythm,

a catatonic lullaby,

perilous in its sweetness,

a confection made from the

blood of the unwitting,

It is a golden ocean,

this sea of dreams,

that laps on the sands

of the grand illusion,

and all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air,

They can keep their fortune,

all I wanted was the sweet

fresh air.

Holocaust of the Cherubim

Broken, you lay before me,

shattered limbs of plumpness, dimpled

with memory

of a time, innocent,

I am not sure how you,

winged creatures of Aphrodite,

armed and ready to inflict

the sting of Love’s bite,

became mired in our prescription

for you,

branded by our lust for

Love’s power,

snatching your quiver and bow

from your tiny grasp,

plucking the silken feathers

from your wings,

adorning ourselves,

like hollow birds of stone.

The sky, once filled

with glimpses of flittering

magic,

are now empty,

and though the fireflies

search for you on the summer nights,

they go home alone,

no longer lighting your paths,

no longer telling the world

your secrets.

Proserpine

Can they not see

the darkness that surrounds you,

swept away, you were,

to another of your “Firsts”,

though unlike your first steps,

your first smile,

your first kiss,

you are thrust under

the arm of Hades,

struggling against the unseen walls

of Earthly fortress,

like Ophelia, drifting away

to nothing,

no longer a babe,

though they think you

a child still;

This threshold of

the unwilling bride,

wed we are to

the darkness of

transition,

never knowing the other side,

or if light will greet and restore us,

or leave us buried in a

cold hard grave,

I shudder for you,

at the sentiments

echoed

“these are the best years of your life,”

and

“you have everything ahead of you,”

and

“you have everything going for you,”

for though they see you as a child,

you rock and tremble at the

mountain and force building

within you,

yearning to be free,

not knowing where to run,

just run,

only,

alone is the only truth you know,

and solace flows as tears in the night,

silently,

not knowing why the dreams

that gave you comfort

died,

leaving only ashes in their wake.

You are lost in a sea

of familiar faces,

no one seeing you

as they smile as

they always have.

Not knowing that your

robot smile

only echoes their blindness,

as you walk the halls

as a ghost,

haunting your

child self,

not yet free,

not yet ready,

just

waiting.

For can they not see

that your pain is as real

as anyone’s?

Your darkness as

dark,

and frightening?

And though your mother’s voice

calls from the Earth above,

it gives no comfort,

for you are away,

not the child you were,

and

not yet the woman

you will become.

Never being warned

of the silent screams

of the blooming flowers.

Gratuity

You feed me platitudes,

from an outstretched

robot arm,

like fine chocolates,

wrapped in shiny

foil, nuts and nuggets

sweet but suspect.

This arm reaches me

through bars on my

window,

a jail of your dis-ease,

and I realized

that the arm

is not your own,

it floats disembodied

upon your

nuance and diplomacy,

assigned there to

reinforce the captivity

your disdain has created for me.

A convenient arrangement,

but I no longer eat the chocolates,

as they pile up

beneath the bars,

like defecation from

a mechanical Easter bunny.

And as I try to break out

of this jail of my own

lack of understanding,

I shed tears of

not knowing

what it was I did

to be sentenced here,

to a term of

isolation,

solitary confinement,

watched over by

this robot arm of your

convenience.

An arrangement I somehow

signed onto,

without meaning to.

And I discovered

a fissure in the wall

of my own disillusionment,

a barrier of self-doubt

and self-deprecation,

self-blame being the

strongest mortar ever made,

and I chiseled at it while

the arm dropped its

offerings

upon the altar

of the gods of Cowardice and

Lies of Omission,

and I chiseled at it

until I made a hole

big enough to see through

to the other side,

and with sentimentality

biting at my toes as I

forced my way through,

I escaped into unfamiliar

terrain.

A new beginning

of realization,

that it was not me all along,

it was you.