Whispers echo from afar in a peripheral world.
They
are like me, hearing the rusty hum, clever to the energy of anguish and uncontrollable
tears.
Static
splits the picture exploring multiple images with fractured sorrows.
A
prickly breath escapes, before a forceful weightiness slithers in.
I
am as if facing Medusa herself.
Suspended
in time, those lives that I have lived and a reign I sense only in remembrance.
My
hands are weightless rolled in glass.
In
silence, my heart drops to depths unknown except by the rising flow of sluggish
blood and a flinch of terror. I am encased within timeless miseries that
afflict the uncounted and defeat a countless many more.
So
comfortable am I in its shadow that I envision the brutality of war and feel
each casualty.
I
am a shining star in a mournful constellation of collected souls bound by a
curse of blood.
Contemplate
the suffering with blue lips, feeling the worlds’ tragedies, barely breathing
at the bottom of the sea. With a hook through my gullet and salt water breath I
lovingly float in a fuzzy red haze.
History
always remembers the pain.
Always.
