prisoner

This world is spinning around me,

The world is spinning without me.

Everyday sends my future spinning into the past. *Addendum per Cognitum8

And every damned breathe, leave me closer too my last.....

Fuck it, I welcome the end. I do not fear it.


Poetry from the Prisoner What follows constitutes a small body of work done during one of the darker periods of my life, some, I felt was prophetic, and time has to some degree proved me correct, but in some way to it is a reflection of a dark journey, through which I have come, and the impressions I could grasp, and share with you. Read deeply for the words are chosen especially and with care. Drink that you might share the darkness with me.					~Awakening~ And with dawn the sleeper awakens to an eighty degree day and the beating sun. Dry cracked ground and dust are the Mother's montage, the stark decoration of the ground. A thousand dreams and the dark glass of his memory are the shadow that saves him, and through which he Sees the day that has begun. Water from the tree of thorny flowers veins, he drinks to live unto the night of the day that has begun. He must cross the desert, fear gathers in drops across his brow, and he knows that he may die trying, but if not, here he will die, lying.

	~Untitled~ Sleepy eyed mind split infinitive riven the mist to display the dawning of the day that shall remain in a natty moth eaten cloak of thread bare darkness. Even the darkness tires. The fetid slightly sweet smell heralds the sunlight's decay shallow sunken sockets depressed eyes blind, wanting, searching, Stevie Wonder head wandering. The dying day, dawning, dusking now is wondering, without sight how to envision, just being the night.
				From the cold morning fast encroaching rose the light-bringer approaching and unto the fertile valleys made he his way, and to the dawn mist forming, and naked rushed our blood. From the veins of the mist, and the curious eyes kissed, flowed naivety and our innocence missed and sinking the dawn mist faded drinking diamonds in the sand. From the sand rose glass to hold the eyes awe filled with the beauty of pleasure and the work of our hand. Outward and inward the search had begun to chain the Morning Star and behold the sun. So thus we rushed on with dissensions hushed song and we raced through the valley to the source of all death, and the bringer and the dragons breath. Now, do we stand at the foot of the wall, bright epiphany of bondage, stars of the fall.


		~Entropy for the Blind~ Awaken now children to stark angles and the bleak horizon. Pale sand gray with the overcast that cannot clear. There's a metallic taste in the air like a hardened blade, and the tang of fear. The black energy flows to the distance that lies within, and our feet, they leave no prints. As long as we are silent there is no sound, and as long as our hearts are still no wind can brush the pale gray sand the color of overcast from the ground. Decide now children which way shall we go? To the North for a league? Or to the South but an inch? No matter the distance to your knees or to the horizon, everyplace flows, as the black force goes. Look Children! The stark plains are gone, and in their place are cities, with walls of stone and skeleton steel, with billions of souls imprisoned to feel. Towers of twins and pillars of might, yet the light they but reflect, from the torches in the place where the black force flows. Fear not children. There is no redemption. There is only you, and your reflection.

			The Valley of the Shadow of Death (part 1) The battlefield lies now just beyond the horizon. It is shrouded in the darkness and despair that has preceded. Fear tints the dying blades of grass disguised as autumns herald, and skeletons of life's shadow drop brittle branches upon the ground, to crackle, snap and break in the last throes of death. In the valley below is the blackened earth that forms a darkened sea broken with shards of white, broken with the bones of those that have gone before, perhaps waiting for my bones yet to come. The warriors at my side, now are gone, and the journey is mine alone, for they were actors in the play, from whose script I have yet to speak. The wind riles the bones in the dark valley below, and brings forth laughter, and the cacophony of the weak. I turn around. One last remembrance like water streaks my dirt stained face and is the salt to season the chaos and the death to which I draw near. Behind lie the elders entrenched in their city of gold built upon the river of blood that flows from the spirits of slaves ensorcelled by illusions of paper prisons that bear the countenance of the dead. The city is massive with the peak of it's pyramid driven just inches into the earth. With every moment it's base grows wider scraping dust from the sky that settles in springs and fountains, of blood from the river that babbles on. The moment slows creeping near a century, then fades, shimmering, a mirage that leaves stars, screaming past my eyes. I turn back, facing forward, and do not see but hear the inverted pyramid, that illusory empire, unbalance and fall, it's point now buried in the remnants, and revenants of an Aeon. The crackle of everything dry announces my step, and the putrescent stench guides my way. Here once was a garden beauteous and in bloom, but though the garden is long gone this rotting decay is unending, for it is for eternity fed by seven mens labor. At first I trudge, then walk, then run, for fear finds my heart, empty of calm, perhaps empty from the start. Fear is motivation, and here, fear is the key, for as fear within and fear without, darkness enmeshed and soot stained flesh I become the chameleon about. So I go on, clothed in the dust of my remains...

~The Game~ I'm tired of this face and this place and the pain of disgrace. I'm tired of this race to only place and the daggers sharpness in this dragons chase. Meaningless games of pain and the stain that shall remain, upon my heart and my soul, these burnt bridges take their toll, but the tears are damned by shame. And the past that is repeated in circles unto death, is the center of our lives and the whisper of each breath. Life is just a game, Vegas stakes make up the same, but the house always wins. With penance paid the new path's laid yet the future remains unsure, pretty baubles line the causeway, pretty fish drawn to the lure. Hope may lie in defeat, but only one thing yet is sure... That the past that is repeated in circles unto death, is the center of all our lives and the whisper within each breath. Life really is just a game, so make `em remember your name. Remember your name. But the house always wins. The house always wins...

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