Waves of reality lap at a surreal shore
Hastened by tepid breaths of passion, of fear
Jagged stone stark against a liquid crimson sky
Sand and salt awash with faint memories of blood
They came here to die, and they died well
To this resting place where nothing finds peace
At the zenith, a fortress – organic, as of flesh
Its nadir a gaping portal to the depths of hell
The structure holds dominion yet stands drunken, unsteady
Pulsing, pounding, at one with the surf
An insect upended with limbs thrashing against dusk
The study’s dark walls entomb a solitary figure
Cast in fluid relief by damp licking flames
Like Kafka playing with Dalis while Rockwell weeps
Writing and reflecting, writing and reflecting
Quill certain, then hesitant, and then utterly possessed
Like a seamstress crafting needlepoint on a voodoo doll’s head
Loud silence -- no, the strains of a lullaby, distorted
A mother’s soothing tone, drowned amid cymbals’ perpetual crash
And yet a clock and the flames have the only real voice
He is I, less one, I decide
Consciousness ethereal, then of fleeting substance
Like those self-same waves
Or as smoke cast by an unseen cigar
Apparent when light deems fit, then vanishing
How might I reflect on this uncertain life
Is this what I am, was, could be?
This mask of a face distorts, transforms
Gargoyles not of stone but self-portraits in motion
Comedy to tragedy, beauty and terror, good and evil
And the cycle repeats
Perpetual emotion, perhaps – I smirk at the irony
The pen dances on paper that thirsts for ink
A soul eternally snared on this abstract plane
Where all might live and yet all is dead
Light and dark and so very many shades of gray
Each slice of life reflected on paper and in skin
Aged parchment immortalizing his life’s many errors
The uncertainties, the failures, the endless wrongs done
His one true happiness a faint flickering image
Here, there, gone, here briefly again
Could he have loved without slaying her spirit
Thrusting this sole treasure to the chasm below
For fear of this very fate?
He laid open his heart and sought of her the same
Flirtations of safety, security, sanctuary, peace
Winning her heart and then envying its being
Unleashing jealousies like a plague
Choking, cloying, dominating
A criminal feigning to judge
Jesters' tears and barbs offering little good humor
His poetry so base when uttered aloud
Driving love through love like a rusty spear
And silencing her pulse because he dared love too much
The child has died – does the man thrive?
Who can love life by wasting away?
Where worms clean the wounds, then linger to feast
Who is really left?
In a shattered mirror I first greet my true face
Translucent membrane sheer on a leprous spirit
Death in life, life in death
So familiar, this marionette with tangled strings
He is I, as one
What I am, was, and am condemned to be
I don't pray, really
