Blue Skies

The Skies of my home, the bright blue expanse, inviting, accepting, the bright sun basking the broad green covered land in warmth, in serenity, from mountaintop to valley, this sight, one most pure, one most nostalgic, one where we said goodbye.  ‘I will wait for you’ she said, ‘I will be here, as long as it takes’.  These were days I could never get back.  Though memories may stay rooted in place, caught up in the underside of the world, time, and life itself, moves forward, steadily, hungrily, ravening ever toward some unknown goal, some sight we can not yet perceive, and maybe this is what is for the best.  Should we see this sight, would we gain the enlightenment we seek, would we cringe at the sight of a visage that we once adored, loved even, the face….of fate?  The grand wheel of life spins, and once shall come ’round again, until all we know, is only what we knew.  Were fate a person, surely he would be despised by the world, hated, cast out….but we adore, love, and even worship this enigmatic foe.  This is my story, of the past I cling to, of the life I once knew, no longer.

Haunted

I am haunted by this memory,  a dream of a child, lively, innocent, friendly, kind, beloved.   I am not this boy, but I knew him.  I am haunted by this memory that reminds me what I am not.  In the end, I am just a weak, conniving, scheming, scoundrel who can do no more than plan, work for, enact betrayal most deep to destroy this innocence, this naivete at the world.  To show a child the real world for the first time is a despicable act, contemptible by even the roughest of scum in prisons, and to force this on that innocent child is a deplorable dream of a mad mind that has long past without sleep, without knowing the touch, the laughter, the love of another.  The only one who smiles at this raving lunatic is this memory, this fevered imagination that he should not be the only miscreant, drove him to this, to create this new man, broken, hollow, raving, alone.  I am haunted by this memory, of childhood, of innocence, of blood-free hands.

Descent to the Undergarden

On the path, bathed in light, and on this path sits a fork, to the right, the not so gently sloping road to the top of a sky-lit mountain top, to the left, soaked in darkness that the sun can’t penetrate, the route deeper, into the Undergarden. The road to the right, long unkempt, left abandoned for it’s implied difficulty of passing, becoming intraversible with time. The route to Undergarden, worn even deeper with countless crossings due to the promise of an easy journey, deeper, down into the Undergarden. And so you walk, willingly, obligingly deeper, till the sun has no hold on the horizon, even the insects begin to fear the silence, bodies strewn across the path, left separated from all those in the world they used to belong, abandoned, alone, they say silence is the loudest cry never heard. At the end of the invitingly easy walkway, the Undergarden, a place that has seen no light in more years than there are people, a place where the maddening sound of silence is suffocating, poisonous, it gets into your veins, corrupts you. And in the end, in Undergarden, the world of light is nothing but a hazy memory of the past, a fleeting delusion of the mad, that must surely never have existed for themselves.