Published: December 8, 2008
Despair. Hopeless. Chest hurts. Fingers ache. Delicate beneath my touch; an illusion. Drowning, sparks behind my eyes, brittle butterflies. There is a grace to the embers that burn away a cigarette, and the way he lowers his eyes as he crushes it out. What worth are we, the lost? Homeless, loveless, the lonely? No point in words. Turn away. Touch is cold but burns. Mourning the lives not lived, limited existences, paper and ink and false idols. Heartbeat beneath my lips. Dust gathering in the corners. Blind, a tragedy; how long have we been dead? And what gravesides do we visit, and how do we come calling? There is grace in the dark of a silhouette, the forgotten specter lingering. Reach out, feel a burning touch turned icy. There is grace in such a desire. Breathing comes labored, throat tight, chest heavy. Watch the stars fall 'cross the sky. Can you taste redemption? Absolution? They made so many poisons with which to wash away our lives, so which sin do you prefer? I want the unattainable, bitter bonded. The wanderer searching for the door. A voice like silk and ash, and he crumbled to his knees. Fragile things, us all, with frail bones. Watch the words fall out our mouths. Strike out in desperation, the fitting end, the crucial turn. Bleed silver and promises. All things in turn bright to life and then to fade, and in between the dreaming. Call the damaged martyrs home, here to rest forever more. Let them be blamed, anonymous, and weighed down to ocean depths with old wants. There is a grace to living, and a truth to dying. All things again to the earth do come. Seeking solace, find the merciful hand and final blow. There is no truth in living, and only false grace in dying. Return, forsake for blessed ignorance, be done. They make no graves for martyrs which bear upon them bright names; they make no graves for those that never lived, who were pronounced dead on the scene as quick as they were penned. Pieces to ash to dust to dawn, and the seekers no doors will find. There are no doors, wanderer, and there are no lamps to light your way. Seek no worlds, follow no ill portents. Lay down, lay still, lay dead. They made no lives, those that spilled ink into your eyes and carved lies onto your lips, and they dig no graves for you that never lived. Lost in delirium, trapped in dream. Doomed to searching, damned to seeking. There is grace in this, existence limited, dead in birth. There is grace in the wanderer punished.