Feb 2016
U**nder this gleaming metropolis of glistening soot and dusk-wrought neon where the glint of warped metals meshes with the matte stone of forgotten monoliths, alone among the smoking alleys at the feet of the colossi, where the refuse of life struggles to cling to its short existence – dug into the niche of mortar and debris…dies the man.
Through blistered, twisted lips; across a swollen and useless tongue rushes the smog and ash of a moribund city. Among the remnants of plenty and bounty, surrounded by the epitaphs of hopes and dreams sags the flesh of a forlorn and desolate being. Behind the cold, grey lens – worn long thin by atrocity and anguish – falls the gaze of the wise embittered soul.
Across the winding paths of debris and twisted shapes, stretched thin by lives too quickly used, that infinite, tired stare falls. Upon the familiar and torturous vista of rubble and decay and struggle, recognition bids its due; and acknowledgement greets this truth: “All I see before me – this dull, and sorrowful struggle – all I see will meet its end. What looms before my eyes and hides beyond…all will perish.
“As my brother bloodies his nails against the façade and spills his passion upon false altars, he will seal his fate and his soul will know no rest. And my sister will cry alone amidst the vastness at the expanse she has yet to cross; and she will cross it still, until her bones crack and grate against the pavement…and yet, she will crawl until her life, too, is spilled to mark her passing. And I will stand where they have stood, and bear witness to the crimson testament of their stubbornness. And I will not grieve.
“For I have left my warmth to false gods. I have marched upon the zenith. I have bore witness, and bathed in the sorrows of my fellows, and cried at the torment I have found, and stood among the jagged peaks – these headstones of steel and strife – and there have I known my purpose.”
There amidst the cold, hallowed edges of night and eternal sleep, the man lies alone. Atop the bones of his life and his companions rests the weary traveller, where strength has no hold and pain has lost its fangs; where the zenith meets the twilight and the wound bleeds no more. For the march will end, and the worshipper will fall, and the ash and the light will mix with the hum and stench and all will be lost to the frail, last glimpse. And give way they shall as the man removes his sight from his dark and dreary life and looks upon the stars as they dance through the whisps and ghosts and whisper his name and beckon his soul, and usher his life from the stones.
Through blistered, twisted lips; across a swollen and useless tongue rushes the smog and ash of a moribund city. Among the remnants of plenty and bounty, surrounded by the epitaphs of hopes and dreams sags the flesh of a forlorn and desolate being. Behind the cold, grey lens – worn long thin by atrocity and anguish – falls the gaze of the wise embittered soul.
Across the winding paths of debris and twisted shapes, stretched thin by lives too quickly used, that infinite, tired stare falls. Upon the familiar and torturous vista of rubble and decay and struggle, recognition bids its due; and acknowledgement greets this truth: “All I see before me – this dull, and sorrowful struggle – all I see will meet its end. What looms before my eyes and hides beyond…all will perish.
“As my brother bloodies his nails against the façade and spills his passion upon false altars, he will seal his fate and his soul will know no rest. And my sister will cry alone amidst the vastness at the expanse she has yet to cross; and she will cross it still, until her bones crack and grate against the pavement…and yet, she will crawl until her life, too, is spilled to mark her passing. And I will stand where they have stood, and bear witness to the crimson testament of their stubbornness. And I will not grieve.
“For I have left my warmth to false gods. I have marched upon the zenith. I have bore witness, and bathed in the sorrows of my fellows, and cried at the torment I have found, and stood among the jagged peaks – these headstones of steel and strife – and there have I known my purpose.”
There amidst the cold, hallowed edges of night and eternal sleep, the man lies alone. Atop the bones of his life and his companions rests the weary traveller, where strength has no hold and pain has lost its fangs; where the zenith meets the twilight and the wound bleeds no more. For the march will end, and the worshipper will fall, and the ash and the light will mix with the hum and stench and all will be lost to the frail, last glimpse. And give way they shall as the man removes his sight from his dark and dreary life and looks upon the stars as they dance through the whisps and ghosts and whisper his name and beckon his soul, and usher his life from the stones.
