Wretched Things

The crows circle this turbulent air, amethyst clouds puffy with beautiful decay
Wretched things puking debris
I don my collar of discontent, a silky black feathered rosette
Heavy rejection comforting my weary head
I’m remiss, in this pain… no collecting all these morbid thoughts
There is no room for loveliness here
In this foul, sadistic atmosphere, where even the demons are haunted
As they spiral down into the rabbit hole
To find oblivion in new volumes of misery –
Sinking further into ooze that crawls with lamentations
Specters poeticizing about woe and death
In smoky caverns, where worms are murky, their fleshy bodies distorted with weeping thorns
From feasting on acid rain
Do not touch their prickly, venomous armature against your skin
Or suffer the corrosive nature – how your flesh falls away, layer by layer, melting… peeling…
To remind you of your brevity
That various degrees, depths, altitudes, latitudes, dimensions exist within this circle of chaste collapse
Its riots, disequilibrium, firestorms –
Char chemical gardens, leaving gnarled, twisted, bent ruins
Jagged hieroglyphs of mysteries bursting with answers that carve questions
Since before origins were painted… then written…
Since before the dirt was marked with bones of sorrow
Since before death was anointed with sinister distortions
There is no moon tonight, just a violent, cerulean hole, sucking in water and spitting out dust
There is no magnet to pull the stars from their sockets –
Lure the moon from her bitter sabbatical
Feast on these hideous and lovely precious things
This is no midnight collaboration
But through the earths crust, doused with stones and weeds; A pod resting, blossoming petals tucked away
Splits, sprouts and climbs, its gangly vine curving and slithering like a calligraphic love letter
Defying curses, afflictions and pestilence
Tender leaves scratch, poke at the dirt; Peek out
Quell lifes indiscriminate brutalities
An innate knowing
That eternity unwraps time from its sedated follicles
The sun will soon be gliding across the sky, bees calling, butterflies playing
Flowing into lifes elemental atrium
But momentarily
The sky lurches and rumbles, cracks and hisses its icy, rancid breath, painting a frigid emptiness…
Sometimes the blue can feel like drowning…
Sometimes the blue can feel like dying…
Some day will tears fall from the eyes of someone crying
For me?
Ducking beneath its soil blanket –
Tunneling back into the moist, warm earth; waiting patiently to bloom, to thrive
There is no pinched stalk here, no waxen leaves nor wooden determination
Just a gentle hum, a tranquil momentum; A Picasso blue beautifully lulling a gentle patience
To drift, to dream
The place, the space, the ripe moment will unfurl, and in the meantime –
To sleep until the moon returns