Poemetry: Gray

Silken brume breaks into stone walls,

a castle rising behind mist,

and all outward advances halt

in the morass the fog has kissed.

Wizards weave white whispers wound tight,

and deign to dream the world in blue,

cast upon the winds words shy,

silent to all who would see them true.

Petrichor crushes the magic

and dispels the incantations;

fleet flee the magi frantic

and weep for their keep’s bifurcation.

Poemetry: Untouched

A book unknown, yet to read yourself;

words writ not by pencil but pen.

Pages untouched bear no bend

and stow soot and space on the shelf.

The dim and dust veiled your label,

left by men of miserable taste.

I drew you from your holding case,

placed you on a nearby table,

and read every tale and fable.

My heart halted with each comma,

and we wedded with each hyphen,

as I touched each untyped trauma

of whispered verses reviving.

Leave me to  stand your sheets as I

inscribe love across your wrists,

faith and troth upon your spine,

and tell you you deserve to exist.

Soon the scars no longer seen

will fade with your faux gold lining.

Free yourself from your bindings,

flee with me from this library,

and let us build our own study.

Out of reach

It has been over a year since I wrote, or even felt like writing, this much. Which is a wonderful thing. Yet… yet, somehow I am unable to touch my emotions.

Maybe it just feels like that. But, it is almost like being a child again. As a child, the clouds seem so close, and you reach out and try to grab them, but they glide by, missing your fingertips by inches. That is how I feel with my emotions. I can see them. They float just past my fingertips. But I can’t quite reach.

Only the slightest clatter of loneliness badgers my heart. Only the slightest tremor for a girl I care about immensely. Only the whisper of a soul.

That is perhaps better than it has been, and I’m prone to thinking that the prolonged illness, and emotional pain that attaches itself to it, has left me burnt out. As rest creeps over me, as wellness spreads within my body, perhaps it is that my emotions, and the depth they give my writing, are sprouting anew, threading the holes torn by suffering and choking the leaks dry.

I am unsure if it may also be that, resultant of the suffering, I have simply acclimated myself to disassociation. To keeping my feelings far from reach for self-preservation. What I am sure of, however, is that I must find a way back to them. To hear the whispers as cacophonies, ringing in my ears as the sound tears away the silence about me. Peals rumble in the distance, expanding to fill the space between. Soon. Soon, it will return to me, and, oh, how my heart will tremble when it collides with the beautiful woman who stands before me.

Poemetry: Call Me Nothing

Through the years, my name has changed,

though the font has remained the same.

Handles and labels and appellations

have loved me and left me, cast me to damnation.

I bid you to heed one adjuration:

by letters lost and sandy scripts,

forbid these from your tongue and lips,

and forget epithets of lore:

call me Nothing if not Yours.

Poemetry: She Lies

She laughs and sings and dances in rings.

She writes poems about life and meeting her knight.

She lies.

She smiles and prays for promises made.

She says she’s fine and that she’s alright.

She lies.

She doesn’t feel alone, that she’s on her own.

She doesn’t cut or consider suicide.

She lies.

Petrichor

For the first time in a very long time, I thought about not getting out of bed when I woke up the other day. Slanted, silver light tilted through a gap between my blinds and the window frame, pale and cool as it skittered across the wall above my bed. Was it a minute or an hour that I laid there? Time. Time means nothing more to a grieving heart than cruelty, the cruelty of a river’s piercing chill as it drags you along, not swift enough to drown you and grant an end nor slow enough to escape the current to the safety of the shore.

What made me stand? Was it that slant of light? That sliver of tepid and distant hope, wan and anemic though it was?

Whatever it was compelled me outside and into my backyard. There, the petrichor, cast upon me by a brisk breeze that trailed it along from hollows in the ground where my dog had hunted out a mole, revived me from dormancy. Damp earth saturated my lungs with vitality long forgotten. The dormant seeds, at last, found somewhere to be planted.

How fast they burst into bloom upon touching that soil. Soon, the petrichor had awoken all my senses to the world, and I noticed that my lilac bush had flowered. From the yard, over the driveway, I bounded to the lilacs to smell them. Raindrops that had gathered in their bells poured from them on to my face, snaking through my bearded cheek to my chin and gripping tight to my nose.

Slumber never takes me for long, but I fear I may have the makings of a cerebral narcoleptic. Granted extenuating circumstances are often to blame, but that it happens at all irks me more than a little bit. We wake to a different world every time.

How long will I be awake this time? What world is to come after I sleep again? What vantages are offered in consciousness that sleep cannot bring? Truth. All of sleep is a lie, and in wakening alone does truth peer us in the eyes as we peer back. And what world we see is irrelevant for it is the only one that exists at that time, and what does not exist cannot matter further than whims and ephemeral pleasures.

I don’t want to leave again. To be rent from the world back to dream, to dream and illusion and phantasm. Brigand fingers, surreptitious and versant, peel at my thoughts. Run, please just run. Faster, run faster. Bare your fangs. Isn’t this worth fighting for?

Rising

Easter is here already. And almost now gone. Last year at this time, I had just had a rather large surgery and was in the process of recovering. Now, I am sick again and trying to recover again. More than anything, my mind is filled by a brume that has dissipated for this moment, which is why I am trying to write at the moment.

I think my greatest fear is contained in a question my father asked me when talking to him about a doctor’s visit. He asked me, “What if this is the best it gets?” Dang. I don’t swear anymore but that gets me close. What if how I feel now is the best it gets, and my moments of cognitive function and clarity are contained in one day of each month? It is terrifying. One of my greatest fears come to the forefront really. How can I ever be a writer under such circumstances? Forget even the professional side of the matter, how can I be me?

So much of who I am is intellectual, though by no means all of me nor the majority of me, but a significant portion nonetheless. I thrive on thought and philosophy and dreaming. The me that I alone know, that I keep from others, is becoming unrecognizable at times as the strands I have woven together of my fate become threadbare and close to fraying.

Yet, my past is not something I cling to either as I was reminded earlier this week. Some former friends are having a get-together after about a decade of not seeing me, and invited me. I don’t suppose I will ever quite understand such foolish sentiments so I turned them down. At least this time, I get to choose to be alone. Not that that is true as I now have real friends who have been there for me when I needed them, who visited me in the hospital, who pray for me and love me and count me as family. Funny, and horribly sad, because these former friends were all church friends.

It is best not to cast one’s shadow by yesterday’s sun though. My shadow comes from the light I have today, and I have no desire to return to what pittance of luminance I had before. Perhaps calling it artificial light would have been more accurate.

Ahh, but all of this is has turned it a long rant. Sorry about that. I guess I am not sure what I even want to write. I just wanted to write something, anything.

Well, in any case, Easter has reminded me once more of the hope that I hold aside from all the struggles of life. The hope that even as Christ has risen, I too shall rise. God has given me another year, and to that end, there must be a reason I live. And if He has let me live, then I must believe that I will once more find the abundant life and health and joy that He promises. Hopefully, this is the beginning of my convalescence and I will find my mind stoked to write once more. Until next time, hope you had a lovely Easter.