Join Date: May 2006
Location: Parkersburg, WV
Posts: 695
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A prose poem
(I don't care for the first line, but the rest I think is not so bad.)
Sitting by the clock, waiting for the call that will not come, my mind leaps back, back to the dull, gray past. All those stagnant years.
Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Murky depths of pointless sloth, coupled with a quaking cowardice, conspire and attack my soul, impeding all movement, all progress.
Standing on a jagged cliff, the black waves below churn, the black waves beckon, oh how they beckon and call, how they tease and torment. Ebbing and flowing, reaching out, tantalizing excitement, like a siren in the sea, a beautiful mermaid on a rock, promising, a guarantee . . . she says, “Follow my voice, sweet as honey, an angel’s croon, I promise redemption and salvation . . . lay your eyes upon my soft, translucent face, dive into my oceanic eyes and know blissful completion.”
Standing on that jagged cliff, ready to dive; ready to plummet, hands out, yearning, crying. Ready to give, give myself, but not completely, never completely, never prepared, never ready.
Thorny vines burst forth within and wrap themselves around my heart, squeezing, piercing, giving that exquisite pain which by now is so familiar that it is almost pleasurable, almost feels like the same completion that I yearn so badly for; bittersweet—we’ve come full-circle.
As those botanical blades slice and sting, as they inject their serotonin-like poison into my core, the black waves below know . . . they read my soul as easily as a child reading a brightly illustrated book. Obvious . . . it’s so obvious . . . conspicuously printed on my very flesh that I am succumbing to the vexatious yet sweet languor.
The churning black waves, the breathtaking marine lady, it respects, responds only to a sprightly spirit—seeing my weak willingness, plain as a supernova in the ink of space, the yellow taint upon my being that settles for the quick and easy magic, the waves begin to ebb and are suddenly gone, leaving only a drab stretch of dry, lifeless sand, barren and brutal, a blank canvas that cannot be painted.
Lying on that jagged cliff, mumbling and drooling in the stupor of false ecstasy, the pseudo psilocybin. And so the green, forever promised ‘neath the turbulent black, subsides again, and seemingly forevermore, to that brown and utterly desolate desert.
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Blow me a kiss when the sky is dark, and I will smile, but no kiss return, for my kiss is the final one for all mortal flesh.
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