ArcaneApollo

A handful of dust spread Across the wooden planks Of the coffin lain red With the blood of roses. Sepia stained pictures curl At their corners of long ago time of laughter pained to a pearl through years of tears and rhyme. The eyes and their gleam slowly faded In the wake of the lack of soul That flew one day with its breath bated To sever the lie and take its toll. The scattering, smattering of the ideal Idea that once gave succour and zeal Implodes against the rhythm and rhyme Echoing in all the halls of time.

The early morning sun sheds through the fraying curtains like a mole burrowing through tilled soil. The room is again lit by the sepia hue that the faded red of the curtains produces every morning. The cot in the corner of the room creaks as the man turns over restlessly at the new sunrise. His eyes open slowly allowing the light into his faded corneas. A sigh escapes his chapped lips and quickly turns into a nettled cough. Niall rolls over and slides under the mosquito net hanging over his cot. As he rolls up the net, his eyes pass over the picture frame turned down on the nightstand. He brushes one gnarled finger over it and pulls it away

I seek Sanity I look for Repose. Neither Came As the Sun rose. I seek Distraction. I look for Light. But all I See is a Memory of Sight. I seek a Solution. I look for Darkness. I found a Bit of neither In a neutral Abyss. I seek Peace. I look for Succor. There is Naught in me Save for an Empty core. I seek Purpose. I look for a Reason. Instead an Empty husk Is the Only thing in season.

I live separate from this world. This world, this life, this time Is a language foreign to my ear As others take the wheel to steer. I stare at people walking by, Driving by, riding by, biking by, Busy going places, living lives While I observe it from outside. Each one acting their own little play Through song and dance on their stage. I sit and watch them all portray Their hearts from this self-made cage. I sit and decay in a plastic chair Wondering who, what, why and where People go when they stop being fraught With indecision wrought from a prison of thought.

I want to write. I love to write. Just give me a topic Or a page that's white. The words will dance And weave with sin. Leave a tapestry of black On its iv'ry laden skin. The rising action falls with unequivocal aplomb. The climax hits your eyeballs Like a freak atomic bomb. The story comes together In a way you've never seen. Guns flashing from leather As if Clint Eastwood's on the scene. Last word slides across Your retinas' tides. Knockin' you crosswise As your legs capsize. Words ne'er put together before, Each a brick in a bridge Laid timeless 'cross a ridge Connectin' my mind to yours.

Suppose I never met you. Suppose I never walked your way. Suppose I never met the friend who introduced me to you. Suppose that I chose a different city. Suppose that I chose a different school. Suppose that I took a different job. Suppose I never called. Suppose I said your name that day instead of someone else's. Suppose I said someone else's name that day instead of yours. Suppose I wasn't born. Suppose you weren't born. Suppose I didn't ask for your number. Suppose I never said hello. Suppose I was busy that day. Suppose I was too drunk to remember. Suppose I kept on walking by you. Suppose I turned and never saw you. Sup