A miserable tune should be locked away from the night.
Into the cacophony of trees it leads. Morpheus's forest.
"Babylon", the road that feet fall into beaten footprints,
lined with a choir of golden weeping willows.
Mourning on their bowed boughs; tear drop petals, falling all.
Forget-me-nots, blue as sky, pass into the Forgotten.
A dark recess where perfect twines with never.
The resting place of the woods, as the Dawn Chorus trumpets.

A painting in a trash can
of a woman with lovely skin.
She holds in her hand a paintbrush
that creates the worlds she's in.
The years make him cold, and
the man who she belonged to
no longer hungers for.
For the great heights of triumph,
to the rivers of the low.
In the rubbish she sits,
a queen on a garbage throne.
Out side the streets are quiet,
the rain drives all inside.
A silent moment in a world,
for which a painted tear,
she cried.

I wonder how astronauts feel when they return from space.
Do they miss the weightlessness?
To glide so effortlessly would be a ballerina's wet dream.
Perhaps they go skydiving,
and when they do they close their eyes
and block out the wind in their ears,
and just for a second, it's almost like they're back.
Do they line their floors with trampolines,
and bounce from room to room?
Although, going to the restroom would be hard.
And when they dream they get excited because they are back in a rocket ship.
It shoots to the stars, but before they can break through earth's gravity
they awake, back in bed.

A dull moment in the storm.
The seas recede for now.
These jangled bones,
worn from flighting
and fighting,
find a rest.
They creak as they settle,
in a harbor,
but not a home.
Though these bones
long for the eternal rest,
my mind knows
there is still journey ahead.
For home is where the heart is.
After my heart, is where I head.

"Jerry."
On the table, scarred with cigarette burns, "fuck"s, and old spilt coffee rings, lay a mangled mass of what once resembled Jerry's hands.
"Jerry, are you listening?"
Bones pointed in all directions, like a fallen Jenga pile.
"Jerry, I'm gonna say this one last fucking time."
Jerry was unable to answer. Besides the duct tape that he had wrapped around wrists, keeping his life juice all bound under his skin, there was a piece placed upon his lips.
"Jerry."
Blood pooled on the table, running over the edges.
Darkness grew in front of Jerry's face.
"Jerry! Fuck!"
The cold began to creep in.
He closed his eyes.
"Mac! Hurry the FUCK up!"
Under the table, the pooled blood began to drip unto the grime and white tile with the ever-discolored caulking.
There, with a sudden introduction of color to the boring floor and willful ignorance, Jerry's daughter began to paint.

Threads bare on the woolen blanket.
Itchy fibers weaved together
complete the tapestry.
On soft strings lays a mighty castle.
Two tall towers loom over a booming base.
Bricks of red, brown timber, complete its' massive barricades.
A pull strains the fabrics.
Slowly it rips.
These mighty walls,
that withstood sieges
and fires,
collapse.
A hair alone has little use.
Together, each makes the yarn stronger.
A work of beauty and utility crafted from nothing.
But, like all things that come together,
everything falls apart.
A kingdom comes to an end.

Pleasantly, the minister finishes his sermon.
"...and so go forth my flock, and do good.
The good in your heart. In the name of..."
An urge comes over him.
Something from his old life,
but he resists.
"civil service." He finishes.
The words leave an empty feeling in his gut,
but he smiles from his pulpit.
The wooden pews in front of him clatter,
as the occupants vacate.
The huddled masses move under the golden arches
and out into the fresh spring air.
He stands, transfixed on the ever present dust.
The broken glass windows flood the room with sunlight
for the dust to dance airily around.
In his mind, he has gone to that feeling.
Lately, his mind had been coming back to it more and more.
Like a pimple growing under his skin,
as soon as his attention slipped,
his subconscious would float back over to pick at it.*
A younger version of him stood in front of a mirror.
The new white robe brightened the whole room.
It was his first. He was ready to lead.
This was what he was meant to do.
This was good.
This was before The Secularity.
*Attached were memories.
He was cowering in a corner naked.
"Drink this." A cup was placed to his lips.
He was too scared to run.
There was no choice to refuse.
He knew what happened next.
It would be bad.
*Each spoke to him.
In his arms, he supported a figure with long brown hair.
A girl. A soon to be mother
with a child out of wedlock.
He rubbed her back.
"It will be ok." he soothed.
*An argument of images...
"My kids!" A tiny woman cried at him, "They're starving!"
He had seen her before.
The short cut, blonde hair.
A fancy dress on her pudgy body.
Rings on her stumpy fingers.
Outside a bar in the early morning.
*Muddled.
"Enough!"
He spoke to the ghosts that inhabited his mind.
He found no rest there. No answers.
He retreated to his study.

 

Like a focus through a lens,
I see the stars' different light.
They can twinkle like bells,
and illuminate the night.
A laugh leaves my lips,
when I know it's all, alright.
But, when a lamb escapes,
as they are wont to do,
I fear for the rose
of a friend I once knew.
The difference in lenses
force a different perspective.
A cage or a park?
The world is reflective
of our thoughts in the dark.

Beyond the corner lies the alley,
where deadly lies await.
And in the streets lie the dead,
where weighted lies confess.
Through out this day of delay
life is laid to rest.

John stood up as the all clear sounded. He had not been hurt. The mortar missing him by a football field or more, had not detonated. He was deep enough in his base to never experience direct fire. The occasional IDF had been an inconvenience at most. Even so, something inside him had died this time. He walked back to his work station quietly. Around him the chatter was picking up. All cares of any threat forgotten in the drunk haze of laughter and bravado. He smiled when someone joked to him, but his mind was not there. It was still on the ground, listening. Fate, karma, pure chance had tested him. He felt as though he had failed. What did it mean? He seemed to stand on a hill of sand, that had once been a mountain stretching into the sky. A tower of certainty reduced to rubble in seconds. All it took was a whistle. The ground, dusty, had mixed with his sweat and left an wet outline. It died there. A piece of who he had been. A piece of who he thought he had been. It was there, when he laid down and heard the whistle from above. A Schrodinger's cat of death. Unseen, so unknown. His thoughts raced to acceptance. Accept it they said. Death is coming. But he couldn't. Inside something pulled against it. A superstition. If he accepted it, would he seal his fate? Control over something already per-destined? His mind shuttered and the walls collapsed. He would die in fear. A heritage passed down since the first creature to feel. The unremarkable, forgettable death, that would go out without barely notice. Another number in the history books.
John stood up when the all clear sounded. A piece of him remained on the ground listening to the whistle as the mortar flew overhead.