Son of Swords

I stand in the dark, under the pouring rains,

While I pray, and the world eats my soul.

My song is all of my roaring pains,

Buried in the shadow of the black totem pole.

All that I used to be is just a memory,

A prayer crashing against the stone ears of devilry

As I long for zero,

Singing my song in chains,

I long for zero.

(Every step is dogged)

I am the son of swords

Born to follow the lines of force

With my blood beating with the swollen words

Written on my soul with no remorse.

I seek the palace and the sonic throne

The Chalice and the broken bones,                               

So I dream of zero

With all my tattered dreams,

I dream of zero.

(Every hour is devoured)

In my lonely tantrums,

When my entire world is ice and steel,

And I am the only sighted man in the kingdom,

I lose my way and cannot feel

The dark kiss of the maelstrom,

The omega sunshine bliss of the atom

So I go to zero,

Holding close to my shattered soul,

I go to zero.

(Every breath is counted.)

Somewhere there is a great black mountain,

Looming under a twilight moon

And under it a great marble fountain

In which I bathe by the light of a wormwood noon.

Call me the lord of pain; call me the king of sorrow

Call me silent apostle, son of mourning on the last tomorrow.

Singularity Theory

With pen in prolific hand could I, at will

Spin worlds and brighten skies,

But mine was not the mighty Hand.

With pen in inspired hand could I, at will

Soothe souls and still tears,

But mine was not the mighty hand.

With pen in eloquent hand could I, at will

Move hearts and bend minds,

But still, mine was not the mighty hand

Nor mine will the will of God;

For it was His mighty hand that removed

Your life from mine

And His will that has

My hand, once prolific, eloquent and inspired,

Forever stilled.

Lamentations

It has always been easy for me to write.  It is part of what I am, who I am.  So as I stare out this window, across a moon filled night that I’ll never again share with you, I write.  Pen and paper, the only two constants in my life.  All that I had when I had nothing, and all that I have again.

I find myself writing anything these empty days.  Phrases from old songs, random thoughts, hell even grocery lists.  Anything and everything. I even copied, word for word, that Bugs Bunny cartoon that you used to laugh at.  It’s almost funny when you think about it, I’ve been writing since I was 10 years old and never have the words been so available, so prolific or so meaningless.  Hey, if it was somebody else’s life, I’d laugh myself.

At least I can still call myself a writer.  I mean I still put pen to paper, or fingers to keys if you want to be all technical about it. And that’s what writers do, right?  Even if all I manage to do is rehash bullshit.  The only original thought that I’ve had these last months is that when you left, all the color, all the magic in my world went out that door with you.  I see your face every time I breathe.

I am a man of words caught in a place where all my words are no more than pale memories.  If I write “eyes,” my hand does not drown the way my soul did in yours.  No matter how many times I whisper the word “kiss” it is not the excitement of your lips, not the racing of my heart.  I can say the word “touch” until it echos off these empty walls, but it will never be the hand that placed my hand on the pulse of the world.

All in all, I have learned two things since I’ve had all this time to reflect.  The first is that writing is all bullshit.  It’s worthless.  I can, and do, write the word “stop” until the cramps make my whole arm tremble.  But not once has it kept us from arguing that day or you from driving away. I can and do, scream the word “no” until my head pounds and the tears start again in these eyes that I know should be dried out by now, and it doesn’t keep you from walking out that door or that car from hitting you head-on and taking away my love, my life, my Art and my future.

The second thing I’ve learned?  Well, I’ve learned that the saddest thing in Life is that Life continues, even when our hearts tell us that it should not, that it must stop; that living just goes on and on whether we want it to or not.