I shouldn’t write of love while I’m angry, but I am powerless says the muse of muses, the un-masterful master eating from an empty dish. I imagine one thing, told another, and shown nothing! Could it be that I’m oblivious to the half-love that boils beneath the skin as if it’s a cauldron, a vat filled with the grins of conjurers gnashing their despair?
It isn’t rocket-science! Its innate discipline! It's basic math! But also lunacy, impure insanity lodged inside a gravely infected folly; nightmares lined with the mutilated skins of the children of war!
Have I gone mad? Has all of this change, this hope, been a test meant for me to see even more of the unhappy rage, the world off her edge, children coloring outside the lines of white noise?
Truth and untruthfulness are counter to one another, yet belief and disbelief are lovers, sightless and deaf, sharing their tired and crimson wretchedness with the other! Lies are devouring truth like vultures pecking and pulling at flesh; one layer becomes the gateway to the faithfully beating heart, another to the spirits digging inside my bones for their escape. I’d get off of this dizzying ride right now if I could imagine another! I’d saunter my happy face across the distance and into the void if I thought for one jolly second that I could flee the compound!
Oh, Creation! Oh, Love! Lend me your noiseless ears and wordless tongue that I might know your heartache, envision your sideways sorrow! Speak dust! Speak wind! Speak from your trough of pitiless sorrow!
Like I said, I shouldn’t write of love while I’m angry…
© 2011 by mark prime
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