Since that day
I am sad.
A vain shadow darts in and out of the canopy, faintly pursuing its misplaced pockets of flesh. Flickers of ash rain upon whip and backlash. The fallacy of composition ruthlessly exposed beneath a glaringly mocking sun! A sardonic embrace between pie-gobbling philosophers. Far wiser it would be, to cling unto piecemeal shreds of existence, than to seek restitution between deranged mind, desiccated heart and disenchanted soul. Nonetheless the shadow manages a feeble smile, unmanifest in that repulsive black mess. Clamour for a projection onto flesh and blood, where the world can see, nod and give two thumbs up?? Folly, folly, our shadow's melancholy...know he not that the axioms of nature have never been reversed for unworthy buffoons, but he find out all too soon. Reality wields a long winding knife, once it warms up it slashes your life.
Likewise, hand in hand with my eternal companion, our vanities exchange cookies. A symphony of futility in F# minor. We stroll down a god-forsaken path, humming victorious war melodies, sneakily dripping our guilt, shame, crystalline pain. A modern hansel-and-gretelization, paving the way for my samsaric return. And over and over again, the vain shadow grovels for his fame. As for me? Since that fateful day I have never been the same.
posted by dennis at 7:00 PM
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Do Red Blood and Bright Blade commune with each other, in thy secret dwelling place? Is your body their shameful canvas? Do they make their pictures leave their mark skin-deep?
Or are the storms of your soul and emptiness of your eyes, still content to be black graphemes?
Does the wine cup sparkle?
Yes they converse, commune, conjuring up a tempest so delightful, so audacious that it tramples upon my wretchedness, each stroke a signature, each colour a memory, until the palette overturns and floods my sensibilities, fills the wine cup, and elects the final poison.
There is no eye, there is no storm. All is disquiet in the eye of the storm.
Yes, sweet is their communion in the darkness. In the darkness the eye may not see the hand, yet the path marked by their flowing crimson ties thy wretchedness to Earth, grounds your despair in Time like no other can.
You look up, and still there is nothing to see.
Sweet are all these tools that remain yours, when the tempest has swept all else away.
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