alex-benac
Canadian
Let's talk about the important things in life - justice, pragmatism, passion and empathy. Let's apply those things to who we are and where we're going. I'm 18, a student at the University of Western Ontario, a total dork, and someone who's trying to do just that.
I see the forest
here, from inside my glass pinnacle.
It is drowning.
I watch as the tide rolls forth,
a crackling, all-consuming
band of roaring flame,
to wash away trees.
Ash peppers the pristine window
from which I watch
as fires are lit, one upon one upon
one
by figures in suits
that resemble Man
but are a different being altogether.
Living green quickly withers and dies
as veins of the red tide, popping and
jumping,
delighted as children,
gleefully bleed into what
once lived, saw sun, kissed moon,
loved stars.
And the Demi-Men
in their three pieces and ties
setting fires.
Setting fires.
No one to put them out.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 12:48 AM UTC
Will you stand and face the greying skies?
Bear, resolute and unflinching, the shudder of thunder
the flicker of lightning
the anonymous frigidity of hail and snow and rain and sleet
as it crash lands on your face?
Will you stand and face the rising tide or the enormous wave
that sweeps towards the sandy shores of your desires,
hold still, perfectly so, while the ocean’s salty tears
come together as one to deliver
a hit so merciless, your very soul will be knocked off its feet?
What will you do when you wander the forest
naked, without sight, without direction
and the towering jack pine comes crashing down
directly onto your path?
Will you stand and fight the ignoble bigot
on the corner of the street that claims
to be overlord of your conscience?
Or will you stand and face the skies, the seas, the woods,
and Man,
with the creed and cry of one determined to scatter
oppressors into the night,
to walk from one side to the other
and come out unscathed?
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 12:47 AM UTC
- I -
I am Death
and I am sorry.
Sorry that I robbed you
of your youth
your vigor and your
vitality.
I am sorry that I gave you days
and months and years of black
days and months and years
better spent under the sun
dancing in the rain
prancing in the snow.
I am sorry that I robbed you
of your very first love
your child, your sister
your mother or father
your one care in the world.
I am sorry that I took away
those things that were the
light of your life
the salt of your earth
whether those be tangible
or intangible.
I am sorry for all this and more.
- II -
But this is what I do.
This is the burden that Fate and
Destiny have placed upon my
shoulders.
This is the task that has been
assigned to me by the cosmos.
The universe needs a Reaper
a Soul-Harvester
a Life-Taker
and that’s me.
Death.
It is my unfortunate task to remind
you – man, woman and child
that you are not invincible.
I am an omnipresent reminder of
your own mortality
an ever-present red ribbon
tied around your finger.
Believe me when I tell you that
I enjoy it very little
and detest it very much.
That I should be the one who
coaxes your tears from your eyes
burns my soul – MY soul.
Yes,
I have one, too
however hardened it may be after
all these years.
That I should have to swoop in to
your homes, your hospital wards,
your cars, barge in on your meals,
your vacations, your special time
with loved ones
is, to me, awful, a sin.
Me stealing from you those years,
people and other things from you
is vagrancy, indecency, criminal.
Nothing less.
- III -
I, Death, am a vagabond.
A cold hearted ******* A demon borne
in the fiery pits of Hell.
I am cruel, calculating and ruthless
with impeccable timing, I know it.
I know it, and yet I have not the heart
to give up what I do.
It is the only thing I know.
But every day that I do it is a day
where my heart aches.
My heart aches
and it has for some time now.
It is a pain of which I shall never be
rid. I am sure of it.
Would you believe me if I told you
that I listen to your pleas?
Your moaning, your agonized begging,
your take-me-not-hers, your why-him-not-me’s
fall on ears.
Attentive ones
listening ones.
I promise you, I hear you, and I hold your
hearts in my hands.
But I just cannot give you what they seek.
It would be unfair.
Me letting your brother live and not
his would be unbalanced, unnatural
unseemly, unprofessional.
Mercy defeats the purpose of death.
Mercy defeats the purpose of me
and I hate it
but it is so
and that is that.
- IV -
I am Death.
I am black
I am dark
I am night.
I know your secrets, your darkest
ones.
I know what you desire to know.
When you shall die.
I know it.
You all shall die.
I know it.
You know it.
And that scares you.
You are all afraid of me.
Do not lie. I know it. It’s true.
You all think you are doomed.
You think you are doomed?
You are doomed to succumb
to death?
I am doomed to be death.
I am sorry
but I am Death.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
The River is lonely
it has no friends.
The mountain
naught but an acquaintance
a majestic bastion
a beautiful companion
but not an equal.
The River flows down
the Mountain
rapidly but elegantly
gently carving itself a niche
in a coarse, rough landscape
made for the tall, the bold
but not the fleeting.
The lonely River winds
shimmering, glimmering
from the top of white to the bottom
of black.
It slides effortlessly, brilliantly
yet still unnoticed by its silent
surroundings.
This River, this lonely river
moves ever
in the scorching sight of sun
or the chilling glare of moon.
It snakes, wonderfully, imperiously
slicing through rock and stone.
A vein of silver
in a grey, grey land.
And where does the river flow?
Downwards, ever downwards
through field and forest
gold and green
to the Sea.
The great Ocean
where it melts without fanfare
into blue.
That Lonely River.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
Where the pasture meets the woodland
and the current meets the past—
that is where I will meet you.
By the light of the day, I will greet
you and be near you.
When evening falls, and the field glows
burgundy, I will come nearer to you still.
And in the night-time, when the sky
is a well of inky black pinpricked with
diamonds, I will be so near that
we will be one altogether.
We will languish in the woods, forge
friendships with the trees.
When the trees tire of us, we will go
befriend the tall grass.
Such are the inhabitants of this place—
this place where the pasture meets the
woodland.
And you and I, my dear companion,
will slip into their ordinary,
while remaining wholly in our own
very extraordinary.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:23 PM UTC