Thursday, November 15, 2012

Nightmare's Autopsy (The Will to Overcome)

Unawareness.  Sad, sad scourge,
Where despite the cleavers gleam
Enroll again! On we surge

Upon the cold, cold table we
Will once more lay prone for
His convenient dream

Watch we shall, March we will
From the silos to the unmarked graves
To cut across reaping fields, ever forward on we stave. 

Vivisection does not breed good intention,
Do not believe anything they say, it’s never about
The process, it’s always about the pain

Inflicted, where the loudest are the strong, and the screams expire before the walls wail their weeping songs, while the sick, while the poor, shed not one tear more

Bone to bone. Disassembled on
Slats of marble, practiced upon
For those not cared for
Are but generic and alone

stainless tin, cold, cold steel
each discarded, parts and whole
Sad it is, for these, not a tear is felt

Separated by the lash of an imposter God
Fearing a day without, where future’s freedom’s left in doubt
Leaving but an unheard requiem, a lesson, a sigh, for without the crackling, pain does not yield, ever forward stirs the prod

Reassembled, fractions and sums
As only a self-termed God would dare attempt make whole,
Such reunions of the recent dead

Your image yet fans each flame incited by the memories haunting the dreams of your dearest mourners, where words, spoken in your natural tongue, engrain each minute of slumber, with the writhing procurement loss endows

Every piece within is found without.
All lined up across this wall
Organized precisely yet scattered haphazardly about

And here treads a man, in the shallowest depths of water, pacing in wander, sloshing over each direction ever scoured
Ever mired is the misery concomitant to each shard remembered, never knowing what tortures persist to lurk

Yet, it is he, who we cannot dare guess upon; it is he, who never sickens thinner than frame allows, for repetition’s mysteries here assembled sour not the troubles therein

Jars of me, at rest, alone
In this sealed solution,
flesh plucked clean, off its bone
a floating cage with lockless ends

Forever swimming—
Never truly dead, yet life barely seep these veins,
Floating simply about, within this pool, an aquarium
Where waves are as absent, as those prehistoric beasts science willfully omits from the present-day vernacular

Pickled in formaldehyde; Awash, then dried,
By permutations cloth, preserved forever, yet
Never, in such company, could the soul hope to thrive within

Errors form the function, upon this weavers loom,
Tainted by misfortune, needles sew wryly their quilted interpretations, echoic of our most hollowed depths of doom

Expertise is ignored, when it’s failure that’s exposed,
Leaving only the thrush of pride, forever hidden—shall we try, to find pathos, through wisdom’s ever dwindling light?

Parceled streams create purported visions—albeit in lieu of the self-sustaining sufficiency such stained seams require—
Where thusly soon thereafter, we are quick to notice that the breadcrumbs have all grown stale and indigestible

Here, the body secretes away its last remaining vertebrae, crafted, is a sense of clarity, never known or seen before—proffering each sentiment stored away, with the dank chill preeminently found whilst creeping seditiously amongst those reservations not your own—for it is within these chambers, where the stagnant air of darkness, adroitly replicates mankind’s first regret—

Yet strangely enough, for now, a change is found—an unrequited epiphany appears—here, falling forward—we see through the murky horizons and past the greyest clouds, envisioning that fleck of precognition crucial to surviving this nightmare realm our beings have been unwittingly cast unto—

It was in each these bands of sparks, whose arcs bestowed more than superficiality, but legitimate directions to salvation—here, it was found that one can be lonely, without succumbing to loneliness, where one can be alone, yet sated still—for it was then, when needed the most, that I became aware, aware, fully, completely aware, where the torture that shall surely follow, will be nothing to the comfort I now feel.


  1. Change can come and go and plenty of new and crap can show, we just have to overcome and continue to beat the drum.

    Good luck with your new endeavor too. I'm sure it will be aced by you.

  2. This is a rending masterpiece, illuminating the darkest night of the soul, full of the paradox of dream, and the turn toward the light at the end is all the more impactful for it. So sorry to hear you're in a funk again. Please take good care of yourself and get the support you need. School sounds like a real way forward, please let us know how that turns out. I'm relieved to hear you appreciate the checking in, I don't want to intrude just remind you that I care.

  3. thanks for the personal note...and i commend you on going back to school man...i am there myself, recerting in education...its not easy...hope you break the funk soon can def be tough...but sounds like you are taking some positive steps...

  4. very vivid imagery in this...with lots of grit as well....shivers...

  5. Good luck with your enrollment, Fred. Sounds like a positive move!

  6. hey fred...this was a powerful, emotion-filled write...wishing you really all the best for the plans you have with going to school again...good to sometimes leave the safe harbor and go and discover new land... thanks for keeping us updated

  7. The trails that we leave behind does start to disintergrate, there's no following a way back. There's much feeling of isolation and shadows obscuring the path in your poems. Awareness is probably in the now, the past and future distorts, never quite clear, never quite how it is, changes with each view or from different angle.

    I wish you all the best, Fred.

  8. Vivid stuff Fred - words from the soul.

    Glad you're fighting your funk and a return to school is a good idea and am sure will bring rewards.

    Anna :o]