P A R A L L E L
In the heart of a city, shells
get hollowed out and the bells
toll not for those who fell.
This heart has no soul left to sell,
and the city and its people tell
their children to fear hell.
But hell is where we dwell,
when what should be connected
Is instead parallel.
==============
This morning prayer of a sinner
taints today like iced winter
Branches. Snuffed, Rough from last nights bender,
He holds the gun that used to keep him warm.
Now it sits idle as he, with sweet memories that harm
like guns tend to do. Today, he vows, will be the charming
end to a life that should have ended before now.
Today will be a good day.
Enjoying the sun, on this, such a beautiful day,
Shawn walks to work, crushing bones with his feet,
for his skeletons reach this far, but he is not afraid
to conquer that which claims so many in the street.
Today he will recieve the graces of a father to be made
with a daughter he has loved since they did meet.
Jason is confused.
Angry and abusive,
aggression distributed
to those he refuses
his love to. He's useless.
Or so he thinks,
but today he will drink
the nectar of his hating
saving, instead, those he wishes
to be dead.
Today will be a day.
There's a therapist
waiting for his mistress to call
he thinks what exists
is love, but its twisted all
in his mind to be fixed
around what he wants. A tall
lie for a short, thick soul, tricked
himself more than the girl he walled
in for so long. Today is justice.
One more show for an old man
looking to drown his woes.
Tired. but not ready for retirement.
his life has built up an ocean floor of sediment.
of what should be. not what is.
Today is
The last day She
will dread the sunrising.
in her belly wells another life.
Today
begins...
With a Bang (Chapter 1)
And a light cracked the sky
Over the structure of the City
Where Blinds stacked the light,
Ripping the dark, scarring his body.
The blue life of the city night
Begins to fade, the white smoke
Rising from his cigarette goes gray,
Twisting over fingertips, Itchin'
'Fore his stint of vengeance.
The fan, overhead, rends it.
The Fan, in his office, remembers,
Golden hair flowing over shoulders
like spring water bending over boulders,
A twist at the hips bewitched him,
Those eyes, those eyes,
Those tempest skies
Connected together, forever,
One mind. Time passed by as they
Intricately Intertwined. Tonight,
Finally he may say, "She's mine".
His mind keeps twisting, wringing
out reason. Lies, stacked, Sting.
Suffocating in a bad dream,
Shocked awake from his sleep,
Alas, too weak to seek solutions
He rolls over to return to the burn
of decietful polutants
Breeding mutant memories, Seeding
Fantasies to erase his mistakes
To his demons, he pleads, "Leave me".
Alone at his desk, waiting, patient,
Sketching new positions to experiment.
Beads of sweat roll across that balding scalp,
The phone chirps a pleasant tune,
A warning. The paper tears out,
crumples down, into the bin.
He hides behind his desk, masking An erection,
A woman is led in, her fair skin flushed.
His artwork flames freely under her
Clothes. The door closes. The rest is confidential.
The Serpent tatoo slips out
from under the hotel covers,
Into the shining morning light,
Sheilding an old man from a new day.
With a body on his left and a bottle on his right,
A pounding in his skull blacks out the last night,
He Stumbles, mumbling to himself to get upright
He reaches the bathroom mirror, with a sigh,
Splashes cold water over his eyes, a tune comes to mind,
" I despise you, My sweet, sweet demise in disguise,
Surprise! The wise have won the Miser's prize-"
Enough. The radio haunts her with that voice,
once crooning away bedtime fears,
Now a part of the darkness ever clear,
And near. As tears well, she veers,
Steering to dispel the bells she hears,
They clanged and rang out,
With a bang her car shouts,
and pain shoots through her
and the youth yet due to birth.
Stepping Out (chapter 2)
From his front door, the walk is long,
but he prefers the proccess slow.
Allowed the time to analyze,
His eyes come to focus.
His feet step in time
With the song
Stuck in his
Head,
A March
In the heat
On the sidewalk
Of a bustling street,
Wading through a mass
of people who never greet him,
Treat him like air, transparent, Taken
for Granted. He moves through
them, His ravens Perched
behind him, in his mind,
driving, guiding to
the gallows. Alive,
He strides in old
Soles he once
thought he
Let go of.
The toll Of patience Has Shawn Pacing,
As he's selling spaces to bidders
Racing. Waiting for midday,
When he'll have the
chance to break-
away, Step
outside,
Soak up the
Rays. Business,
Booming, reigns him
In, Chains him to the phone.
His clock, no longer friendly, Tick
Tocks a never-ending March to Twelve.
Stepping through the wavering way,
Debating and hating the daylight,
Jason seeks shade from a City,
Fuming, vibrant, and liquid.
Wading slow, a swampy,
Humid, human stench
Has him whipped in
Wicked ways. Beads
Of sweat cover his face,
A mask of shame, pinching
What pride has been left, a
Withering, blubbering, stump
Of a thing. The last hair of his
Dignity, swimming towards Help.
For counseling, to cry out, one last
Time. The door within reach, automatically
opens, and a divine breeze, freezes his pain.
A thought of escape.
A primal embrace to
retain his good name.
Just a folly, by golly,
for a brain above the
normal plane. After
all, 'We're but human,
and life is but a game'
The mantra that lasts
The fool 'til his end,
'But no fool am I, I've
thought of everything,
My tracks have been
covered, no trail have
I left. No sins, been
committed, not one
Wrong-doing to prove'
So he layed back
and breathed deep,
for a daydream to
seep in... a phone
call instead, from
the front desk.
A problem, a patient
who seeks him in
durress. With lunchtime
but half an hour away,
Therapist Logic tells
him to make it quick.
He tells him to make it quick,
The bus downstairs, waiting,
need begin the days trip,
Back to his city, where life
blossomed fully, years ago
before most of his memory
can recall. Of all those moments
that eclipsed other moments
only one still eclipses them all.
The birth of a child, who would
refuse to call him father, the birth
of his sadness, the birth that
would end all. The bathroom door
opened at the will of his hand,
Watched the sultry women sleep,
wishing last night still existed,
For nothing sits their in his memory
nothing of pleasure, nothing of misery,
A bliss unequal to death, a deep breath,
and an exit from that moment to today.
A flash, a crack, a Bang,
The airbag deflated, leaving
this woman in plain view,
on an empty street,
No help in sight, just the
sunlight and it's heat.
A smoking crushed body
Impaled on a brand new
Streetlight, She moves
faintly as she revives.
She opens the door,
Steps out and finds a more
frightening dent, in her mind
she sees blood, pouring from
within, she screams, but in panic
no air can escape, and she faints.
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