In Blank Stare

Aligned nowhere

The times have changed

The criteria’s rearranged

I’m left in blank stare

My memories of you

Are bent, my thoughts are lost

As you aren’t similar to the one I once knew

Your memories of me

Erased from within

As if I never existed previously

Two sides to a coin

Head to heart

Tails we start

Always disconnected, forever conjoined

The sand has shifted below

The storm’s splitting in

Dissociation just won’t let go

So again…in hell we swim

The Crimson Bath

Post prism

Depression

Angular dissension

Grandiose

A delicacy, a toast

For those lacking light the most

And so I drift away, to a place I once knew so very well,

A universe unlike this one, a place where homes are carved in stone,

Where troublesome letches rove the dark extensions

Hours in comatose

Stumbling cross the craggy fray

Middling moments

Of great reverberation

Songs of echoic chants repeat their play

Over and over, again and again

I can’t get their words out from my head

Fur placed by river’s shore

In the water I reflect upon atrocities

So soon forgotten despite their retention of warmth

Like spores popping conscientiously

I see my face in its entirety

A slow step back brings my frame to focus

And the memories flood my thought canal

         Painting cornerstones a myriad of shades

The vivid and the off hue

For an eon it seemed to stand

A frozen man, without

Yet amassing swarms of enemies

Bathed in crimson,

                  Not just the flesh, but also, the question marks as well

          How did this cleansing come to be?

                  Was it birthed in pleasure or necessity?

         What languages speak in tongues like these?

And even the voices shake their heads…

                           Why has recollection shunned me so?

To steal the process from the skipping stone,

To dwell so far yet ogle my position from deserted throne

                  Leaving me with only prayers to own

What is the origin of such constructs?  

                   Is it in me, has this been the case all along

Or is it within parts yet to be seen?

Who is the architect of such a mask?

         Were these hands meant for callousing?

If so, then why has the subconscious purged remembrance so thin?

                           Into the crystal wash I walk

The scarlet I desire weakened; pray at all cost it’s forever lost

        

Upon submersion

How many sins shall wash away?

Where will the currents take them?

Will they regret? Will they every truly go?

Will they feel isolation, as they drift along without home?

Or will their next host embrace their cruel glow?

         From phosphorus to dust

From anxiety to life

                  We wash the crimson clean

                           Arising, from beneath the fluid screen

Hair compressed to nape

Levity is quiet still; levity may have died this day

Yet/ Reborn I feel/ lighter than I have ever been

Amnesia

The fertility of the soil

Reflects the barren future

In this world, this vulgarity

Under a crimson sky we hide

The length of time

The words we use

Hostages taken in

Shortened sight

Symbolic, Ever-present,

Pieces of omniscience

Blessing the atheist in each of us, for all our sins combined,

Fuel is splattering like a hose,

As children, racing across the grassy fields,

Evading droplets as they approach,

The hearts are filled with laughter,

The scent of their smiles saturate the air,

Flames intend to warm the soul

A blend of cascading whites and blues

An inferno, a helping hand,

Igniting the spark, destined to scorch

All written history, erasing the evidence

We were ever here

Life Reincarnated

It appears an eternity has been erased,

There is a static beginning,

And a fluid end, obviously yet to come,

But the parts in-between seem to have

Traversed this lifetime,

And I am left awaiting its return,

Dreams are like foreign films,

Familiar images in dissimilar scenes,

These are the memories of someone else, a person I’ve never known,

It seems the understanding has returned,

To all the chariots, go forth and tell the world,

Your king has returned,

We are all given two things, life and death,

These are the only constants that connect us all,

It’s what we do in that sacred field of experience,

That pasture of plentitude, that chasm of what cannot be,

It is in this place we cast our unique molds,

And tonight I cast my own,

All the images in my head are nightmares I must bear,

Yet I’ve been given that, which I’ve yet to hear,

A life a death, a Rebirth

Where the only similarities lie within the face