Ending

There he stands-

            the absentee father of a world forged in sludged

            venerable slithers of an apocalyptic ash

His face contorts,

            threatens to vomit forth the immoral objections of night.

And she waits, waits, waits

            already knowing the holy lies to come

Her mind ready to twist graceless lies into a more devout truth -

            one that her tired mind can live with.

Epileptic tremors - both of hope and horror -

shimmer through her as his noise descends, obscuring the very

brilliance of the air with Its black need.

Then that horrible music stops -

            it is time for her to pretend

But, in the seconds of worlds

            before her mouth could spread black honey over the abomination

            A stab

                        A heartbreaking melody

                                    Rainbow

It shown through her, all around her

            with the brilliance of imagination

Then blinked away to nothing once more.

But the damage had already been done.

            She saw the abomination as never before -

            Cold and dark and…  Growing

She had helped it grow.  Oh yes, blindness - even feigned - and fear

nourish the creature.

And it would be so easy to feed the aborted child he’d birthed

She speaks.

“I don’t need you.”

The statement is simple; the effect profound

His small eyes narrow and harden;

            the usual sheen of false tears forgotten in his rage

He speaks angrily, angrily as his Child

            the twisted blackened husk of what was once Truth

            Dies.

But it is too late.

She knows

September 16, 2002

Hail the Nightmare

They fall, and They fall, and They fall

And I hate it.

Not for the victims

Not from the pain

Not for the devastation

But for the replay.

Tears fall without utility

I feel sick.

But for what purpose is this hollow repeat?

What possible benefit does the constant reliving hold?

To ‘move on’ without forgetting

To honor without disgusting.

To fix is my goal.

Two souls touching, tasting one another for the first time.

In years, centuries, eons, or minutes they are unsure.  What soul can speak of time, what soul can grasp the meaning of a second or a month? 

In their eagerness to find one another, the souls take on flesh.  Flesh for flesh’s sake is mere foolishness; flesh for the sake of the Spirit makes these things real. 

They rush, one to the other, longing, searching, praying for the Moment of reunion; a single Moment of recognition would content the two.  Lives lived and shared, pains endured, contentments missed, bodies felt, all in the space of time that has no measure. 

Love come and gone cannot stop the wanting. 

Peace sought and found cannot ease the yearning. 

Anguish fought and conquered cannot end the needing.

Two souls meeting, folding into each other to time’s end. 

It is for this I long.