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The Hours Of Loss

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  • The Hours Of Loss

    Time seeps through membrane -- somehow. An echo or a perfect reflection blinding my vision. You take, i bite before it's all gone, choking and spitting up your blood -- past resentments. I don't want to be wrong. I've wasted this flowerless life on the garlanded isles, where the snakes droop down beneath the castle, at the roots, gnawing at things.
    You might see how he can look to have a smile. Those things don't think, they have a small, well-adapted brain. They work on instinct, memory. Working up a side-wind in the sands, if they get closer enough to bite you, we bury you in the sun.
    The pipes in the tunnel leading from here to where we need to be. I saw the oil-slick faces of people on docks, they looked scared and smeared with the residue of the world.--Wet skin, like a clothy silhouette. I thought they'd break apart like some skin, and deep dark hurt would be beneath.
    Look at it looking at me like a baby. It can't use its tongue. I sort of like it like that. Close the door, babies get sick. And don't breathe--
    Don't breathe? What do you even mean, this is my child and my house. Your tongue be mute as balding stone. Before the sun comes, we sleep. I don't want to go back there.
    Looking into the fire of the stars, i wonder at the passage of the souls through the streaming of the sky, like tonight they twinkle above the mountains, in pastel brilliance, daring someone to possess them.
    They loved with soul, and felt it completely through the thrum, that even the mountains sort of burst at the seam at our brush against death. Rocks kept falling and we watched it like an avalanche happen before us, and though we were safe we were still scared, exhilirated.
    I knew there'd be no going back this way, we would ascend to the highest point possible, go down another way. That is how it usually is. If we have time we can eat bird soup with a turtle's back bowl -- bon appetit.
    All energy lost in a vague flood of nihilistic un-urge. The lack was driving me into a hole i was shrinking to get out of. I kept clawing at the insides and you, and watched with my fearful eyes your own fearful eyes watch me from the other side.
    This is the parting of the ways. Years will pass before the transition truly happens and is gotten past.
    The veil thins, while our blood winds a passionate lava, broken and ruptured like the crystal springs like warm baths, entering in with a dive, myself the world and my memories collide.
    Fish and nothing lives due to the sulfur. An aggression noted, due to the life being endangered and a price tag put upon it. The want to take up an idea or a cause, to direct the energy-- To sharpen the weapon of knowledge, with reason's metal. I wanted to be blind and imagine things untrue. I knew i could somehow make it through outside to you.
    Except i fell, and kept on trying to step. Nothing happened once again, and your paradise rusted with ruin, caked with excess beneath the fingernails, the ashes of the furious place blown outward and then sucked back in. We all gasped.-- It was perfect, we watched it die. With pitchforks and heavy minds, our consciences rusted us too in the artificial cage with ourselves as guardian and prisoner and key--combined. We flourished in the shadows where warm things grew between the cracks, and we dipped into the effervescent stream and walked through the watery walls--our favorite day could never end, and we made the rules, we didn't have to bend them.
    It is nice to know when to be born and when to die -- doesn't matter, and you don't have to decide. I almost found you again. Telling stories, locked in past midnight, snow's been on the ground for a week plus.
    The ink in my eyes says. The globes are criss-crossed with taxis and ire. I forget my full self. The spider hangs in the mirror. My muscles are exhausted, my spirit through the window pane wanes. I waver, next to giving up. Propped up on something from before.
    "In this room the hours of love still make shadows." Sentiment of pure truth exposing the still-beating heart. Bukowski wrote that line.
    Here i am again, somewhat stuck hanging in the rafters, where space extends in all directions, and it just seems an imperative: --"Build". What else can I do. Just melt together?
    Forever is eternal presence. And the answer--which one 'eternally matters'?
    Last edited by amenOra; 01-05-2018, 01:36 AM.
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