Lame instruments of a life
Riddled with abject vacuity
Lie dead with rusty fulcrums;
They lie, as good as broken.
* * *
Each morning, I pull my arms and legs of lead
Through the solid inertia that I endure.
Vertical walls, infinite and so smooth. I reach, and
I am prone to sliding deeper into my mind.
I stop where no light dares reach, no eyes dare see.
My joints have accumulated plaque
Left from innumerable years; it is the filth,
The dust of obliteration.
Words are all that I have now:
Imperfect representations of my eternal distress.
They are inert; they are my immobility.
Black type is strewn across a hundred
Pages for every day that I have lived in the
Atrium of the withered heart of hell.
It rests between my lungs. My body is
Catharsis does not reap the same salubrious light,
Not anymore, now that I haven’t a soul.
It resides inside me, but inside me it has also abjured, separating
At the base. I can feel cold and lugubrious air flowing between
My useless body and my previously phosphorescent spirit. I have
Felt it for far too long. This climate has demanded my life.
My memory is a predictable construct, and my words,
Such shallow and frivolous furnishings, tomes of quality despair.
What an escapologist am I, to free myself from fleshy confines.
Through height and hard ground, liberty will be
Held by me. My suffocating container will crack under its own weight.
All that I opine will spill and trickle onto the street,
Propagated by pedestrians and civil folk with curious feet, who will
Tell their friends of a sanguine shade and the poor man
Who gave his final statement to the world in broken, bloody letters.
The world seems to have just rolled off of my tongue.
An analyzation; a propagation; an exclamation; a declaration; a conversation; a desecration; a proclamation of truth. Peace and love.