Tuesday, September 29, 2015

prose poem 20 | wings and chains and too many metaphors

The rampart was built and the beast; both framed in bones of pain.

She slammed into the sofa, barely screaming. There was an upraised hand, and I ran.

Crenellations and walls well-buttressed and orthogonal towers leer from on high. An old Norman keep, a mark of invasion, this is merely the donjon. Star fort, granite-rimmed earthen work, outlies it all.

Motte and bailey was not enough.

In the oubliette I hide; I await; I wither.

To mount the outward attack takes always heavy toll. I sally forth and fleetingly assail the world.

(A world I try to remember is not so very wretched.)

Each pill is a chain, necessitated more and more with each use. (All this without even the pleasure of abuse.) It is hard to remember, sometimes, that the chains can be wrought into wings through the furnace of time. It is hard to remember.

It is hard to remember calm. It is hard to remember center. It is hard to remember joy which will not flutter away against any breeze.

A stranger’s smile beckons panic. A phoning friend weighs like lead. That you wish to discuss the weather, makes me wish to explode. The rigid controls still yet hold, but these things too take their toll.

I have switchblades for bones: hidden and strong, cutting when pressed. It seems I’m always bleeding inside.

All that blood feeds the beast. Raging and ready and even, on occasion, righteously so, it stands ready to tear free, wreak havoc, and sow entropic seeds. I have no healthy way to release it. Barely beneath my skin it seethes.

The reality is… I can control only myself, and even then I am slipping. Even there I am failing.

I weather each storm, hidden away, screaming in the dark as the oubliette floods from the torrent outside. Something soon will break, or I will drown, or the walls will fall.

Will my wings then be ready, and I shall fly into an angry sun?

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