On those drawn out summer evenings, all manner of characters would fill the coffee shops and spill outside. An interesting cross section of society would be provided for anyone willing to sit and watch, for an hour or two atleast. This particular evening will always stand out for me as representative of those carefree folly filled evenings. I was sat alone, with a copy of the evening news and an espresso across the street from a boisterous coffee shop which remained opened deep into the evening, long after others were closed. I often sat and watched people in those early few months, Id decided against socialising with colleagues. I would go to great lengths to prearranged fictitious plans and engagements in order so that I could sit alone each evening, pleasing myself. It's always far easier to enjoy food alone, without any distractions. After considering my options I settled for a steak, and a glass of wine. The waiter seemingly unconcerned failed to take note as I gave my order, with a shrug of his head he returned to the kitchen inside to place the order. The cafe I watched was perched almost perfectly across the street from the train station. As commuters and young couples in love poured out of the station, and onto the bright expanse which was the street before them. The popularity of this particular cafe is hard to convey correctly, it's frantic nature remained even on the bleakest of midwinter evenings. Now though months of bread and water were long gone, as seasonal waiters hurried arms filled will all manner of snacks and drinks.  All manner of agricultural workers would congregate in early march, eager to snap up work in the best hotels and cafes thus ensuring a healthy wage and generous tips. The waiters from the mountains always stood out. It was as if they retained the innocence of there previous surroundings, smiling all coy when taking orders from female customers. They retained the physical attributes of the mountains which they had left, towering above others and maintaining a mystique which often meant they would return in November with wives and child aswell.




By now it was half past eight atleast, and I had finished my steak and wine. The traffic was in the process of slowing down, although it was not uncommon here for traffic jams to form at any hour of the evening. Car horns echoed and ricocheted off old architecture which gave an impression of immense movement all around.  The owner was a beast of a man standing six foot high atleast, with a beard which gave away his rugged beginnings. It was impossible to estimate his origin correctly, Id always imagined he was from somewhere in Northern Europe although by now I had learnt that assumptions were the preserve of fools. He could most often be found pacing up and down the pavement adjacent to his cafe, smoking his camel blue cigarettes and staring deep into the night sky. As if preoccupied with some great moral dilemma this could go on for hours of end, without him breathing a word to anyone.  Under a great mane of curly brown hair, lay the most enthralling blue eyes imaginable. They had a softness which would not seem out of place upon the face of some Parisian muse. Although I must confess when first confronted with this gentleman an his almost childlike appearance, I was adamant I had him figured. He seemed the kind of man who blundered through life, although successful still seemed to be scraping an unenviable existence for himself.

By now I had stuck around long enough to get some feel for the pitter patter of life in just such a place. The transient nature of the customers ensured a bravado unseen in any old small town watering hole, women driven wild by spontaneous desire stared sultry at the mysterious visitors.
A crew of sailors who had no doubt been granted shore leave, and were soaking up the atmosphere just across the road from me. They could have been from any South American nation, or Spain. It really was impossible to tell from my distance, a few had clearly cultivated moustaches whilst at sea. It was common for sea faring people's to grow ****** hair in such a manner. Almost as if by magic, a story told by someone without a beard holds subtle undertones of irrelevance. I had learned this over the many months I had spent smoking and talking to locals, and travellers alike. I must confess I had fallen hook line and sinker, I was currently locked in the process of cursing my genetics and dreaming of a more rugged appeal.

By now the black coffees had petered out, and had been replaced by glasses and in some cases bottles of what I can only assume was Spanish red wine. The noise had steadily increased as the drinks flowed, and the crowd of sailors had gradually grown more and more boisterous in there escapades . A few feet away the manager stared intently at the revellers, as if the warn them without words of being too careless in a foreign city. The ever present owner done very little to deter the actions of the pack, who's numbers by now had been swelled from another dozen or so sailors who happened to be walking in the right direction.  The sailors leered shamelessly at the local women, whilst the more forward of them made there own advances. Still the manager stood smoking and staring as if to catch the sight of one of them. Now to the wary eyes of a man returned from a long voyage this would seem like a place, where desire became a priority above all else. This would be an entirely accurate assumption although, if the surface was scratched significantly an underbelly of immorality could be found. For the sailors though, whom were just passing through unlikely to ever return this mattered very little. There only concern was draining themselves on some unsuspecting women, or if so required a *******.

It's hard to say exactly how the altercation was initiated, although I suspect the cat calls of a few sailors had pushed one local over the edge. Whilst the promise of conflict ensured a crowd would gather the bar owner remained just away from the ruckus as if picking his moment. The sailors numbered in 20 or so, and fuelled by red wine and continental beer seemed more than willing to put up a fight. A waiter who had tried to act as mediator between the parties had given up, and left for the roadside and had lit up a cigarette. For a few minutes atleast it looked as though the scuffle would be forgotten and laughed about over eggs at breakfast. There was a barrage of shouting and pulling as the locals slowly lost their temper. By now many people had stopped to stare at the spectacle, this is where I must confess things got really strange. As I have previously stated I have no real idea what brought all of this on, that is to say I have no idea what set the process in motion. It was a well known fact that in times of violence the locals would protect each other with a ferocity and loyalty which could see the most able bodied men come unstuck. I had ordered myself a cream cake, and was skimming through the news from London when I heard a blood chilling yell. I spied the previously placid manager leaving the door which lead to his apartment above the cafe. With the confidence of a man without obligation he sauntered toward the group of sailors. I did not see the knife, I must confess I assumed this old man would take quite a beating at the hands of these sailors. Oh I was wrong, a young sailor fell to the ground silent, as his green shirt went claret with blood. In disbelief his comrades stood around, unsure exactly what to do. The crowd assembled gasped as if to share collective disbelief, the manager had managed to slip off somewhere without provoking any attention. Over the next twenty five minutes an ambulance arrived although I feel even the paramedics knew that this was more an exercise in keeping up appearances than saving any lives. They surely knew that there was very little they could do for this poor boy away from home. Police officers milled around, It was safe to say the bar owner would never be brought to anything like justice for this although, the general consensus was that anyone who got stabbed more than likely deserved it in someway or another. As for the manager  he had long been bundled into the back of some old pre war car and taken far beyond the cries and disdain of world weary sailors. No doubt to reappear a week or so later.

Oh, I know not!
I see not, and master not!
Why t'is caprice - t'is tender whim, is unwilling
to unveil my soul, conquering it with
mounds and plates of rapturous
yet canonical attention. How I dread
such falsehood! Strong, strong falsehood!
What an inconsiderate urgency! A matter, matter of the heart -
as mighty as it probably is, of its own accord! How serious
t'is would be! I am suffrage; and akin to its vigour areth my laugh,
and joy - I would be hatred if none cameth to stop my pace;
my frosty haze; and t'is gruesome maze! Yes, I would but be,
in th' length of some furt'er days!
I shalt no more be of t'is delight, and clustered inside my gloom,
pressed to th' walls of dainty loom; from which I shalt never
be comely enough to be granted an escape.
How terrifying t'ose scenes areth, to me! A poet as I am,
unenviable is my littleness, and humility; to t'ose who glare with jealousy
at pangs of my laughter, and childlike demands - as how t'ey always
chastised during t'eir coincidental encounters. But I am blessed!
I am blessed by my words - and t'ese cheerful, yet unending poems -
as unlike t'em I am, ungrateful and vile beings, flocking to th' church
only for th' sake of brand-new dowry, and enforced blessings.
Murderers of peace! Sons and daughters of vice! But I am convinced
t'at virtue shalt forever tower over t'em; and in th' right time t'ey shalt
be pulled off t'eir horses, and unedifying pleasantry. And goodness
shalt t'en win! For truth never bears t'eir unfaithful boasts, just like
it hates t'eir dishonesty; which so insistingly frosts me
with atrocity within 'tis lungs, and so soon as doth it start to cling stronger -
abashed shalt I be! Incarcerated shalt be my front, and dutiful
countenance - in t'at gross conflagration with secular flatness,
hesitations, and worldly doubts, in which yon grotesque salutation, corroborating
'tis assailed countenance, gouty and drained by rightful mockery;
comes but to avenge my love, my wondrous love -
which yesterday was dazzling and dripping fast
but contentiously, like a ripe cherry. Like a small burst of wine
craved by scholarly epicures, t'is feeling but anonymously grips
my lips, trembles my heart, and distracts my limbs;
should I be to think of thee, I shan't but be away
from t'is nauseatedness, of regrets, again! My thee, my thee,
areth thou truly gazing at me from afar? With fascination in thy stares,
wilt thou bestow me such destiny I hath been so desirous of - my dear?
And with thy serene, bulbous eyes - t'at sea of blackness
basked in marred turmoil - ah, a sign but of peace after such fire! - wilt thou
mould thy mind, thy stony mind, like a black-painted rose,
to throw at my being, just one, voluntary glance?
I am but anxious, my love, how I shake all over
with unreturned passion like t'is, my blood is circling
in distorting, yet irrepressible agitation.
How I wish t'at thou could be here, and rendereth me safe, in solely
but thy arms, my love! And shalt thou be my giddy knight - I entreat!
In my unmothered dreams, and t'eir precocious brambles - on t'ose journeys
of loom, doth I fear not, for thou shalt be t'ere to mirthfully comfort me.
And off shalt I fly again, to greet th' thoughtful morning!
But ought I to leaveth my dreams now; for thou canst be here to celebrate
t'is snowy day, and lift me onto triumph! And how I wisheth to cast away
t'is imprisonment, how I longeth for but thee here - just thee, remember t'at,
o but hark to my swift whisper, t'at calls only for thy name, my love!
How aggravated, and corrupted my conscience wilt be -
within th' membranes of my brain; t'eir hardship is severed by thy unpresence.
My love, o my restrained - single love, t'is ode that lights my soul
shalt illuminate thine; and 'tis long words - threads woven along
an abstracted lullaby, and vanquished by silent accusations, from thy, thy mouth!
A well t'at is perilous in its standing - standing like a torch, unruptured
albeit neglected, innocent in 'tis acute forlornness. Poor misery!
Hark, hark, my love - how t'ose dames, irresolute in t'eir volatility, and
charms of miraculous beauty - but tumultous inside, entranced by fear
of losing which, as so graciously raved and ranted all over th' year!
Th' dreary years - which th' above phrase caused me to be well-reminded,
and duly recall how t'eir sickening remorse tossed me around; and decreed
my jests of dread, sickness, and disdain - surges, and waves of animosity
wert but all about me. But how they areth happening again! Amongst th' snow -
running about as t'ey art, t'ose heartless, indignant creatures -
blind to th' tenderness of nature, bland and untouched by its shrieks, and
flickering toil! How I wish to save it, but incapable as I am - a minuscule shadow
of early womanhood t'at I own, I choose to stay distant,
and pray for t'eir impossible atonement, somehow, before t'ey entereth
t'eir silent graves. How t'ose ghosts of malice areth in no way acquainted
with th' woes of th' churchyard, and th' grimness of death - I declare!
How unafraid t'ey are, sacrificing t'is coherent life for such courses
of abomination. Victories upon th' misery of others,
dances to mourning songs, how evil! But I wish for t'eir salvation,
for t'ey art unable to even salve t'eir poor selves. I shalt be fervent
in my generosity, for 'tis th' most rewarding part of humanity;
I shalt be but a faithful servant to my innocuous nature. I adoreth my nature
just the way 'tis, and I shalt build its madly-scarred way back; with tons
of brightness, care, and hearty bliss! Yes, my love, my bliss - which inhabits
th' entire space of my maturity and unmolested passion. Inapprehensible as it is,
I am but to win its grace, and t'erefore thee - just as I hath so ardently dreameth of -
as heretofore, and shalt thou but be saluted and fended for
by my, my sincere and unbinding, affection.

Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state,
And in their secret senate have prevailed
With the dear dangerous lords that rule our life,
Made moon and planets parties to their bond,
And pitying through my solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.

For me in showers, in sweeping showers, the spring
Visits the valley:—break away the clouds,
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.
Sparrows far off, and, nearer, yonder bird
Blue-coated, flying before, from tree to tree,
Courageous sing a delicate overture,
To lead the tardy concert of the year.
Onward, and nearer draws the sun of May,
And wide around the marriage of the plants
Is sweetly solemnized; then flows amain
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,
Hollow and lake, hill-side, and pine arcade,
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.

Here friendly landlords, men ineloquent,
Inhabit, and subdue the spacious farms.
Traveller! to thee, perchance, a tedious road,
Or soon forgotten picture,— to these men
The landscape is an armory of powers,
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.
They harness, beast, bird, insect, to their work;
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,
And, like a chemist 'mid his loaded jars,
Draw from each stratum its adapted use,
To drug their crops, or weapon their arts withal.
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap;
They set the wind to winnow vetch and grain;
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime;
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods,
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,
They fight the elements with elements,
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked
Upright in human shape to rule their like.)
And by the order in the field disclose,
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.

What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,
I followed in small copy in my acre:
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree,
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle Mother of all
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds;
The innumerable tenements of beauty;
The miracle of generative force;
Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds;
Mainly, the linked purpose of the whole;
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty,
The home of homes plain-dealing Nature gave.

The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain:
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts
My garden-***** can heal. A woodland walk,
A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds, and leave no cicatrice.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear,
Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass
Into the winter night's extinguished mood?
Canst thou shine now, then darkle,
And being latent, feel thyself no less?
As when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,
The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,
Yet envies none, none are unenviable.

Questa canzone è su di te*

To you
Mother Courage
I extend a cigarette
of shy anticipation
I want you to ****** me
to implement your closure
on the monotone
Duet For One
Raid my loneliness
in a hotel on Naked Street
Walk The Proud Land
of maple leaf melancholy
as you would the violated daughter
of New York Confidential
I'll diffuse the wind
of my depression
for your mourning candle
and undo the changing of
your name
No longer need you be
The Girl In Black Stockings
unless of course you want to be
Yes I want you to ****** me
but not to bear the burden
of a Miracle Worker
steady as you've been
on that unenviable pedestal
In the dictum of my
infinite malaise you define
The Last Frontier
Let me light your cigarette
Louisa
with which you would illuminate
the fog of my unbridled
Silent Movie

harbouring virtuousity,  curious to express
exhibiting,  she firmly held the pen
to jot down the mystic emotion,
the exquisite dream
oblivious of the mounting stress
pouring
the dissipating words recklessly fading
confused up wit
unable to sought down, the oblivion of sleep

knew not what to indite
unable to contemplate the very dream
but thoughtfully only was such the fuddled sapidness
the psychic images ; a subtle dream

dreary eyes
thirstily awaited
till the very amnesia faded

for the sole muzzy feeling,  this the only manifest
suffice the unenviable question
whence crept the feeling?
whence the love aviate?
where rested the answer?

sudden diaphanous streak
stroke sorely to the pounding wit
paralyzing her for the moment being

the sudden egest
whatever the persistent burden
gone

for now
them thoughts voyaged operosely

beyond the abyssal pupil now dwelt
the glamorous face, snowy heavenly dress..  
the very words ; euphoric conversation
lasting gentle tepid touch
that had dourly crept and haunted
throughout the delusive night...

penned down
finally incurred
peace

Down and out, broken like so many burned out automobiles
Yet blazing infinite with immeasurable conviction &
Rapturous with the weight of destiny
Manic hysteria drove them off the overpass
Hipster Valkyries raised them to avant-garde Valhalla
And the eight o'clock news made messiahs of the lot
Nirvana sold last weeks newspapers on the side of the highway
Rolling with a sweet glimmer of a shark toothed smile
On the horizon hunting for a high that can't ever be attained
Holiest of Holies on a red lipped mountain top
Or a supermarket bathroom stall scrawled with ****** madness
The Lord's Prayer in black ink, brutal and simple
There were misty eyed girls on the morning train to some great and unenviable elsewhere
And by night the crows circled six times, once for each of the dead end dreams swallowed that day
Candid and conscious, where the wild ones roam the city
Burning the flags they wave and waving the flags they burn
America's sweethearts on the run from the police
Sawing at heartstrings like bows on a twisted violin
From the mountains to the valleys the winds screamed senseless in their joy
Liberation and the kiss of a lipstick Judas were on everyone's mind
Martyrs a mile a minute, a dime a dozen
Down the line the angels wept gloria mundi
For the sinners sung with passion, the saints stoically mourned
The revelers and the rioters and the street kids looking for a ride home
The toxic kissed stars that set the city lights the shame
And the masochists, blessed with a gypsy goddess' double edged kiss
And broken down like so many burned out automobiles
Yet blazing infinite with immeasurable conviction &
Rapturous with the weight of destiny

...Yet I still have visions of
Death and his father,

Disconsolate and privy
The tears of his mother

His love for her deep but
No one should know,
For her burden is heavy,
And her shoulders are low

6 billion,
7 billion,
she rotates all the more...

And yet I still have these visions
Of death and his father,

Furrowing along space without
Sister nor brother,
Sitting by his feet gaining his wisdom
Like fodder

The unenviable task,
Despised by all,
Such a burden to bear
Such a levy to toll...

the walker, bends,
her lycra-clad hips,
to check her addidas laces.

she has walked,
many, many miles
in this life.
all, in the pursuit,
of the, body beautiful.

and now, has the
musculsture,
of an aged chicken.
all string and rope,
under sagging skin.

she breathes deeply,
sips, from a metalic bottle
and begins,
the downward journey,
into the unenviable,
inevitablity of ageing.

she smiles and
gives me a cheery wave,
as she passes on by.

When others slam the door,
You close it with gentle hands.
When others scream at the air,
You focus on your plans.

Explosive anger consumes many,
They react in the most unenviable way,
It is disheartening that they can lose themselves so,
As they live immersed in their day-to-day.

Be higher, choose to concentrate,
Know that you are the key holder for your fate.

When others slam the door,
You close it with gentle hands.
When others scream at the air,
You focus on your plans.

My father would read between the lines
To find a comfortable place to exist
His words were veiled by a velvet cloak
Understatements wrapped neatly in their over-thinking

He would wince in pain as sharp gravel
Would impale his cold calloused feet
The road was unenviable in its condition
Yet he never left the discomfort of the ground

He had no proclivity to shepherd my path
He would let me stumble and crash over my own roots
So I took my time and I kept my distance
For his battered body was foreign to my eyes

He would drift out of sight, out of mind
But out of heart was a different story
As all the shoal and sand settled down around him
He remained governed by a far different wave

when
 the apple skin 
is fit enough for breaking
there will be
just as you said-
 pomp and merrymaking  

I'll weave a cozy nest for us
 beside a faery dell
and sing the song of stardust 
 on a lute of kitten's paw shell

but when the apple tree is dead,
 though the taste of fruit may linger,
it will be just as I said-
 Unenviable December

the song will chill among bows,
 seldom will be heard the music-
we'll know the place like wedding vows
 broken for our own amusement

  in the autumn, all is woven-
   nests and throaty strings

  in the winter forest
    no birds sing



                    -Brian Bigley

(20 minute poetry)

This has gotta be wack
when you open your eyes and find
you're out on a day trip travelling back, but unsure of the why of it.

Not sure of anything though it all looks familiar.

Then a switch flicks on and I'm back to where I belong and wondering why or if I was worried at all.  

It's the shaking if lenses are shook that makes me look on the dark side and to look there is to be there even if only in spirit.

When 'Marley' comes upon me and the chains start to rattle
I battle as best as I can.

one man against an army of ghosts.

Unenviable odds about evens
although the bookies have them
as clear favourites, but what would
they know?

Self preservation and protestations of innocence or guilt are what built the empire
I'd fire the lot of them and take my chances with dead men.

It's gotta be
wack
switch.
and I'm back.

Beneath my grey boots the 
reflection in the ripples

Conveyed a image of a familiar
Turmoil and saddening.

With the landscape implausible 
And the fate unenviable 

it beckoned with its wittering wail the
empty promise of a better life.

The power of pain is ungoverned
As faith slowly bleeds out
Children transfixed and mesmerized
While cannons cauterize our wounds

Mother moon, over hills and lakes
Eyelids can't resist the weight
Arms vanquished and immobilized
As dawn breaks our last awakening

By splendor's dying light
Treason has spoiled meager hearts
Eyes squinting and crestfallen
We are but a fraction of this mutinous crew

For our deaths may be inevitable
And our honor may be unenviable
But betrayal blinks and relapses
As shield and sword seed the earth

Oysters they're out there - somewhere,
Everywhere,
as the oyster men slowly drift through the inlet.
Heaved by sail and oar;
sinews of sheets and sails stretched.

Driven by hope and anticipation
the patina of time etched in weatherbeaten faces;
Like a lure for life the longline stretches and dredges, expectant evermore.

Drifting from catch to catch where the ardent prosper;
Achieve and believe the addiction and alchemy of the aspirant,
"Dream big" of the world the unenviable oyster of youth,
Dictums of the desirous drifting from goal to goal,
and chore to chore.

Mantras of men mourning forgone missives of the masculine.
The dredges of disconnected men's minds to sea.
Destined for despair.

quarter turn of a century
can't relieve this quandary;
what run across our puerile minds,
raising up these woollen blinds?
perhaps another season; two
to find for us a useful clue
we stand upon a smouldered wreck
in this our unenviable trek
from these ashes phoenixes arise

These demons inside of me
don't leave me alone,
or give me a break,
the only break they want
is the break of my soul.

They're always at my neck,
behind my back, waiting,
for a moment when I slip
and let them in to win.
I see 'em when I wake,
walk, but when I'm dreaming
is when they the most active.
The one I met last was a doozy,
a lady known as the Sorrow.

Now sadness comes in many forms,
loud and moaning, or low
and groaning, and all facets
in between. The Sorrow I met
had a low, choking sob
that came from the throat.

That was what I first sensed,
before I spotted any visual.
As I explored the dream-domain,
I found nothing of note,
in that blue-tinted room
of white squared tiles.

It was a clean space, yes,
but it was more sterile than
anything and with nothing to show,
it felt like emptiness given form.

So it didn't take me long
to track that weeping sound,
and find the only other figure
present within the mess of tiles,
a humanesque form lying on
the cold, featureless ground.

She was crying to herself,
so I couldn't see her features,
and her hair covered her too,
like some kind of shroud from
the world and its sadness.

What I could spot was a skin
that was tinted blue, lightly
so and partially faded too.
Her clothes were long and modest,
Everything about her seemed
to project an image of a cocoon,
a cover to hide under from the
ways of our world, weighing her down.

I felt an awful pity for the woman,
never was I one to take joy in
others pain or misery. This girl
was a stranger, but stranger, I
felt an empathy towards her.

Even though I stood right above,
and had been watching for a bit,
she didn't seem to know I was there.
I called to her, without a name to call,
and still, she ignored me, still weeping.
Uneasy I did feel, wondering what
I should do or if I should just go.
Who was I to bother her in this state?

I didn't even know how I'd help,
it's not like I was an expert on grief,
but still, I wanted to give her relief.
So I lightly poked down at her shoulder,
hoping to at last her attention.

After a few moments, she moved,
at least acknowledging my action.
She seemed surprised and stunned,
and so it took her a minute to respond.
Slowly she switched her head up to me.
She slipped her hands from her face,
and moved her hair out as well,
finally removing that natural veil.

For a moment, I was the one stunned.
Seeing her face clear, now, I was
shocked. Her face was actually my face,
my features her features. Except she
wore an expression of unenviable sadness.
A misery that belied the weight of
her sorrow. It was a sorrow at once
I could feel.

For it was my sorrow as well. All
of life's weights crushed onto me
at that moment, all of the pain,
all of the misfortune that I had
to deal with and get over came back
all at once with great fury and force.

Every time I ever cried out,
or felt like all I could do was
be miserable and alone, or
that all my life's goals would
amount to nothing and I'd die,
not a blip on anyone's radar.

That was what fueled the Sorrow,
what gave her life and form,
what motivated her mission
of making me feel as empty
as she felt, as forlorn as she was.

Like true sorrow, it stopped me.
I could no longer move, these rocks
keeping me grounded much like her.
Soon, I was crying just like her.

Two mirror images of misery,
connected and reflected side-by-side.

When I finally awoke from the vision,
tears had stained my pillow moist.

The power of pain remains ungoverned
While the currency of faith slowly bleeds out
Children, transfixed and mesmerized
Watch cannons cauterize our wounds

Mother moon, cresting over hill and lake
Reflections can no longer resist the weight
Arms, vanquished and immobilized
As dawn breaks our last awakening

By splendor's dying light
Treason has spoiled our meager hearts
Eyes, squinted and crestfallen
We are but a fraction of this mutinous crew

For our deaths may be inevitable
And our honor may be unenviable
Betrayal, blinks and relapses
While sword and shield seed the earth

Oppenheimer knelt before death as the destroyer of worlds.
As only Ozymandius stood previously.
He was anointed, and found guilty
The curse to challenge and defy Death's wisdom and mercy...
To usurp "the bringer"
Required only a more certain demise
Several had met the challenge to arrive on the Black Dais,
But death himself remained triumphant
Asbestos, mesothelioma, lawyers,
Each took their place but never challenged Perdition directly
Until one so overtook him
Hell shook Oppenheimer from it's shoulders
The place itself defying it's judges.
Discarding death with him
Oppenheimer - prime acolyte of the light
Who could best even death at being the inevitable and unenviable end
Except life and light herself
Vitae stood guilty in her own judgement
Dismissing the darkness into half-forgotten memory
A shade now unchallenged, an undeniable answer
Her frail form untethered, and expanding into decay.
Vitae cleft her left arm
Forming it into an inkwell
And shaping her right into a quill
She began to write her story again...
"Let there be light"



We must go on

Life is like an elevator.
Sometimes, we soar upwards to undreamed of heady heights.
While at other distinctly cheerless moments, we plunge downwards to plumb unenviable, new depths of sorrow, misfortune and woe.
So have no fear when you are inhabiting the valleys of your life's journey.
For sooner rather than later, you will be able to mend your severed wings and boldly take flight again with supreme self-assuredness.

The End