There are violent beings, shells packed with noisy flesh, their fist digging their way out of a plate of armor like a god wielding immense wrath, as if angry at its own design, or angry that something melded its light into darkness. There are beasts heaving fists as hands, there are words, cruel as time, red as fire; a spirit piloting a monster, the least of kindness, a betrayal of mankind rising from the human ashes.
The caskets coming home are painted in war colors and move across our high definition eyes like slow-motion murder, There are warriors as pale as shame, diluted by counterfeit demands; weaklings baptized in the steady stream of blood; Charon steering away from goodness, his craft heaving with the dead and the dying with their obolus, imagining they’re sailing to Eden.
We are imprisoned by noise like a miner without air, like a child smashed in front of us, like death gripping our hands, motionless and loveless as it moves our lips, forms our words and pierces the stillness. We seem powerless; string-puppets flinging rage and whispering like a dream. We know of our failing, know of our death, yet close our hands to make fists and thump upon death’s harp; a worn-out harmonica, reeds made of bones, the bleached frames as pale as hatred, the color of our maddened days.
Demise travels the world with its symphony, its song of loss, its loathing inhalation and exhalation of gloom. It is the harbinger of life and love twisting inward and piercing goodness like a filthy needle, wrapping its cloth around our throats. Despair waits on us, in our gait, our homes, our possessions, breathing a damp and dark sky inside of love, upon our smiles, within our hearts and souls, and our hands are feeble and knotted as they hurl themselves down like a god.
© 2010 by mark prime
nice...love the picture..;)
ReplyDeleteAnon,
ReplyDeleteThank you and, yes, I thought the picture was amazing.