The wind is cold. There’s no sun.
Outside, the air’s heavy and stale.
Even clouds get tired of crying some days.
Like the reflection I see on my tar cellphone screen.
An echo of myself, swaddled on this rumpled bed.
Tendrils of smoke drifting round.
Eyes groggy, limbs protesting.
Thoughts muffled by ocean waves.
Drowned out by numbness.
Long and lasting.
How can you just forgive everything I’ve done?
When here I am, feeling like I profane the very ground I walk upon.
Is it really that easy to fall asleep?
Because I’ve been sitting here,
angry and waiting to remember how to adore my own seams.
The neighborhood dims, as I try to fill up the days,
Smoking on the porch, drinking off the cold,
Letting time pass, quite unsure what I’m doing it all for,
I keep hoping that once morning comes, I’ll wake feeling renewed,
But everything seems to disappear, blasted away from my frigid view,
Leaving me standing alone with nothing to hold onto,
Searching, screaming for the sunlight to return,
To dribble over my face, cure my ruined tongue,
And make this feeling pass — anything, please,
Come get me out of here.
by: ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
Continue reading “The Garden of Proserpine”
It’s gray out, but there’s no rain.
My coffee’s gone stale.
Worse than the cigarette haze on my tongue.
At my desk, life seems faraway.
Distant, here in my lethargic bubble,
Penetrated only by—
Lua’s playing in the background.
Sounding out against the calm,
A broken voice, beautiful in the infant dawn,
The sun wakes.
Darkness bends when I open my eyes.
Slides and curls and twists,
Slinking into corners
where it can strive and fester.
It constantly struggles.
Trying to keep itself alive,
but there’s no point.
Shadow will always recede
in the face of light.
Sighs slip past lips,
syllables tangled over themselves
like weary limbs.
Sweat bleeds through pores,
encompassing webs of fire and heat that warm,
but never burn. Not truly.
Heartbeats stagger and race,
competing for something beyond,
lost in the unknowable distance—
past the infant dawn,
just over the bend.
And though it hurts to run,
though these lungs
have already endured too much…
Still, I carry on.
Despite not knowing what awaits me over the horizon.
Because pain and hardship changes a man.
But love changes him, too.
His laughter gives her visions
of melted chocolate and honey.
Rich and too warm to hold.
Pools of darkness swirl,
curling at the pit of her stomach,
forcing her to reach out.
And the fear of burning herself no longer matters.
The only thing of any import now is his voice—
And that he never stop speaking.
Windows starred with deathly fog,
Glass droplets falling from the sky,
Pooling around my world,
Rivulets of false, glinting paint,
And weeping lullabies
Words uttered without conviction,
Lost to time and chance,
Memories twisted to suit weakness,
Endless tomorrows, A cacophony of—
Drowsy days and ghastly nights,
All I hear are bottles…
clinking in my head, rampant and overflowing.
I don’t want sleep,
I desire rest.