I remember his memories
Sometimes they are mine
A world of attrition
Skewed by rosey lenses

I felt his pain as they shattered
I felt the burning cuts in his hands
I felt that strong grip as he held the pieces
Just as I felt his strength wilt

He tried,
But feeling for the first time
The physical suffering brought on
by a conflict of emotions unresolved
Led the poor boy down a road
An avenue to bleed out the hate
To break the skin that trapped them in

Short term relief
For long term grief
He sought me out
And asked with a plea
To take his life, and set him free

Sometimes I hear him,
In the back of my head
But no, he isn't dead
He wills himself day by day
To not pull the trigger
Of the shaking gun of deciet.

Mass hysteria meets mass mortality.
They are dead.
They are dead.
They are dead.
Unreality sets in like a fog.
Like a cog in a great winding machine.
A divine thing, but a cruel and unkind thing.

Far worse than just living on borrowed time,
he was living on borrowed space.

The bullet would be bit, a future price so high, neglect was the only agency to survive the now.

Pulling forward, thinking forward,
such tasks had always been simple.

The lateral moves, the pulling inward,
that was all that mattered now.

He had reflected on what might be, what would be paid in time.

Now came the time for the real gestalt wizardry.

An individual across time is a power spanning infinitely between two points.

An individual across space is a power infinite an a singular moment.

At the axis of all where’s and when’s stood the final gamble.

He knew that now, that every threshold of influence across all space and time, mattered.

Within this amalgam of chaos stood purpose, and purpose would do fine.

King Midas has his gold.
The writer has his folly.

He’s broken bread on a tale or two.
Hundreds of scores, blessed by few.

Memories dwindle between the pages,
Pieces of self transcribed over ages.

Words written today,
Swiftly begin to fade.

Every line which is writ,
Leaves scars, oozing grit.

Nobody is the same as Yesterday,
But what’s this chameleon to say?

An invader most foreign has arised.
Dooming with thoughts of demise.

The cycle of ancient history,
All creation forgotten in tomorrow’s mystery.

Having decided to go out in a whisper, this vignette, blows through and around the bones of the no longer relevant truth.

It is a wonder how something as simple or complex as a paradigm shift, can usher entire worlds in and out of existence.

I've clung to this narrative that I am a prisoner in my own mind.
That some usurper took the reigns when I was otherwise too weak.
I needed to believe that, that there existed a power beyond me.
That there was some distinct discontinuity between us.

And if we are indeed one and the same, we are also different.
There was strength in being divided, separate, unique.
I've not yet created a reality where being a singularity is supreme.
So I cry out in agony, united in my unknowing.

I write to shape this new form, this new being, this new structure.
I write to fight against the unmaking of my self.

I muddle in uncertainty,
as time dwindles dawn.

All the while wondering,
if I’ll make the final song.

Shall I make the end of the story,
in anyone’s spinning tale.

These thoughts are always fleeting,
and the pain never fails.

Scream now dear echo,
hold that note so strong.

Now comes the waiting,
always lasting so long.

How fragile is your mind?
Does it stand against the tides of time.
Which from your perspective or mine
Can last forever or a moment.
Either is fine,
Its power we find.
During the reclamation of mind.
This dividing mind.
This self that is no longer mine.

I left all of my words behind.

Stress chiseled a weakness within me.
As my vessel failed, my mind did too.

Though..

I’m not quite finished.
Not quite drained.
Not yet.
No.

A creature of principal
A being of habit
Ancient artifacts, loyalties
Ravaged.

I suppose you knew,
As they left your lips... words.

I am, all about the rules.
The biblical codex of do's and don'ts
Written matter of factly across this rage

Words, truth and lies.
Seeds are sewn, tensions rise.

I reflect on the monster,
Who fuels his hungry belly
On torturous regret.

And still, I smile,
Wicked, demise on the mind.

Let me tend to the garden,
Let the roots grab hold
Let the hostility erode,
Let the finality harden

Your heart too.

This body fell once before,
Running itself to extinction,
In the pursuit of the great word.

Piece after piece, as each thought left,
As each prose was transcribed,
The body too, began to fade.

The resurrection has begun.
A small step forward, with it a line.
The magic flows, the body grows.

A step becomes a stride.
A line becomes a poem.

The exchange has equalized.
The give and take finally in unison,
Healing the body and the mind.

Two illuminated halos shrank
into the the cross stitching of
Goldenrod and Jade.

Smaller they became, until swallowed by
the all consuming darkness of his pupils.

This time it was serious.
He flashed one last glance
at his foreign reflection.
Then out went the lights,
as the weight of night over took him.

I'm inside my own head
The music is playing