It Was His

Take it up another notch
while stepping down the ladder.
Look behind while moving on ahead.
The past upholstered by the living dead.
Love beheld in glory fading fast.
Unknown, the distance of the first to last.
Stuck within the middle of it all.
Where vast despair rings in the middle ear.
And visions of oppression outrank miles
of depressive medications.
Rising up, as swamps become
the fires raging over what had been.
Still held too sacrosanct in memory.
Excluding all the seasons of the present
meant to be. Adored within the silence
of an abstract mental shell. Floating
just above the flames of hell.

Startling, a glimpse of pure reality.
Outdistancing the past of future
held in blind relief. Held behind
the reach of thieves too numerous
to count. Black and white, the aged
photograph had conquered all. There,
within a figure, small and thin. The eyes
bespoke his future in a whim. Desperation
never quite assuaged. Hidden rage within
the sportsman's squad. The innocence
had never taken hold. Caught within
an image, every sordid future streamed,
too many to behold within the instant.
But it was real. The little boy already
knew the feel of growing old. And more
than that, his great intensity of violence
was held within a vase of porcelain.

Adored by mother, shunned by father.
(Vice-versa and it still comes out the same.)
Never quite a part of something more.
No matter distance traveled, he could
never run away. From all the hatred
living in the games his fathers played.
Too many voices speaking in a tone
of cruel authority. The ancient author
smiled, just out of reach. Reenacting
each belief of mine instead of yours.
And there, within the voices, hours blurred.
Days relieved by stardust falling.
Empty voices - calling, calling.
Ever to be heard by only him.

Separated from the rest by walls
of living fire. Blank, the goals to which
they said he really ought aspire to.
While looking in the mirror, he found
the truth. Reflected in reflections
that outlived each human birth.
The pain remained, and yet he
couldn't feel it anymore. He had
become a drop of rain that fell
on ever endless shores of enemies.
He knew not why. Their reasoning
had poisoned even endless skies of blue.
For he had always somehow seen
the wider view. With all the tiny variations
argued to extremity. Clashing in the only
human values that found battle as the
answer to it all.

Honor, strength, and victory.
Duty - blind and never free.
Taxed beyond the maximum of one.
In aging cells, the world fell apart.
Particle by particle, until the sting
became another start. Forging back
in memory, another rage of history -
reborn. Ignoring every feel of love
still spun by spirit seeking. Sweating
in the freezing atmosphere of others
that had never sung the quiet songs
of long lost memory. Beyond the real,
he sensed his fantasy. Fast fading
into all the ruts he'd carved.

Cutting grass within the fenced-in yard.
Reaching for a vision lost within an old postcard.
Fading into dim, as possibilities caved in.
Stuck in the miasma of his choices.
Walking down preprogrammed spans
of just one little plot of land, that never
really just belonged to him. Within a mist,
departed from the presence of his long lost
family. But still imbued by all the grit and
grace of their insanity. The vanity was
melting fast. The mirror had been shattered.
There used to be a time when something
mattered. Reaching out, and taking in
much more than just the same. The
freedom living in his heart could never
quite be tamed.

One last time, he opened up his eyes.
And spied it waiting there for him -
the point of his release. Pleased, he fought
for yet another breath. The intake and
the output finally balanced within him.
Soul flying free - the emptiness
he called eternity
was finally his...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .