How beauteous is thy creation that she sags of my circle; years of suffering for and against my animal, waiting for meaning to show its incisors so I might howl another perception without actually having to turn the screw. That I might entertain another story, another butler with a cloaked dagger, that again and again and again, moaning and groaning upon the lever, my unreasonable attempt to escape Heaven, disguised as agony, strives at putting holes in all truth. Stagger and fall, knees sinking, empty of grace, joy, love, forgiveness, compassion, hope. Goodness dozing with the meek- A romantic couple drenched in oil- 70-inch flat-screen HDTV® with surround noise, another slap to Mother’s face. A made for cinema movie right in man’s dying-room, coming to a theatre near the couch so this jackal with a dream and a grudge and ownership might witness his own murderous dream; supremacy, second coming, self-fulfilling preparation, death. (The first time’s never as convincing as the second).
For my death, you too, Love, you too, prayers, you too, silence, you too, wind, damp and dark and scorching eye. You who wish, are welcome to my affections for I serve thee in this verse, all of mankind in my walk with Love. Bid me wake before the clock strikes its final number and pours tainted waters over flag-cloaked mouths as the stuff found between the bars of prophecy pierces Love. I've my own dream, my own love to share, my own goodness to grant, my own granite to be unwritten.
Come! Yes. You too, jackal, stand with me now at the entrance, at the ready, seeking the hordes of hats falling all over the wind, thrashing the dream, counting beasts instead of sheep, ancestors riding on the wind, steadying themselves for the mass asylum about to Shake & Bake® loose, prophecy’s self-fulfilling night-sweats looking to unsteady arms frayed from use, from amnesia and the obvious.
The heaviest load on has been my inability to truly realize my search for answers. My waltz with life and death so near the other, blind to things beyond ownership or allure, sightless of my beginnings, my reward. My conceit and unawareness is astounding. Knowing beyond my means, poisoning my kinship further, torturing another with tales, words where there needn't have been any.
Temperance raps on its gavel- Guilty of slipshod murder! I needn’t re-chart my destiny, Etch and Sketch the whole of Love, or re-configure my animal toward survival, it’s too late. I've been an unappreciative rabble for what I'd beneath my feet. An ungrateful thug, unthankful lethargic leach surveying the large-print mystery in the sky like a vulture written of consumed flesh.
This may well be the only heaven I'll ever know; the one seed, the blue and green orb, where animal lays his head, and breathes more life into his death than into his Love. The verse pulls its bow across my temple to convince a stubborn lot of thieves and murderers tattooing a most exquisite emblem of failure across the skies to lay down weapons and come out with arms open, to stop and listen to the heart’s connection.
“It will be man’s doing” echoes through the dank hall of my mortality.
The nerve of a seemingly absurd idea wraps me in a softly coaxed comforter, pads my joy with petals and drinks of my Love; multi-colored ringlets of spirit that happen by.
© 2011 by mark prime
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