Friday, December 28, 2012

the cycle and the hammer - a poem of sorts

The spattered torrent of specked winter wind bit as a haggard hound. A howl echoed between dimensions of physicality and feeling, while tombstone trucks lay lining the street like covered corpses at a crime scene. And an icy silence filled the gaps between gusts that would make the soulful moan of a midnight morgue cause eardrums to rupture and run. 

Heat from a cigarette's smoke curled through loosely clutched fingers, while a wresting weight held hopelessly hanging in the other hand recalled the gravity of the situation. And a leaded heart sank the soul lower into the depths of the darkness. Just enough reflected silver light from the sliver of the moon made barely visible the tracks that led to the current stance. But the question still lingered, "How had it come to this?"

Was there ever a time that is was easy to play along with the game that had no rules? Or for always had hurting been so hard? Had all these years of endless contest in which there could be no victor chipped away so relentlessly that there was nothing left but shards of obsidian to comprise this endless black sea? At that thought, a tide of those razor waves swept over again, grinding all pebbles of remorse back to the dust from which their original stones were conceived. 

Wingbeats of snow fluttered more thickly against the face clinging to whatever foothold it could find, clouding that dark vision until it became ghostly blur. If there could be such a lightness of nothing, that would embody the truly sublime.

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