Wednesday, May 13, 2009

poem, currently untitled.

in this instant, I steal your soul.

the fall of man,
or the rise of sanity?

the sun rises.
a city scene, perfectly happy.
oh, unreal city!
a row of pretty perfect homes perched in a row,
housewives bustling contently,
businessmen off at work.
the clock chimes,
the sun sets.
these are the wasted days.

far up in the ancient tower,
surrounded by his whirring clockwork masterpiece,
the phantom watches.
nothing disturbs his observations,
save the marking of the hour.

a table laden with golden drinks,
a room shining with smiles and jewelry.
a woman sips wine at her table,
floating in the easy tension of the evening.
the magician takes the stage,
a paragon of trickery and deceit.
a white dove emerges, drawn from his black hat.
black and red cards emerge, drawn from his black hat.
he smiles a convincing smile, leading the audience along,
down a narrow trail of deception.
his sly charisma, it fools us all.

your eyes that burn with jade fire
hide endless pain and desire.
the trick is telling them apart.

clouds of the dust of ages past obscures our vision,
but is not the blindness of ignorance a greater threat?
call up your scholars, historians, critics, visionaries
and see the best that they've got.
disappointed yet? if not,
you're not looking hard enough.

the man stands, cloaked in black,
like lightning, his pale eyes flash.
the knife slides in slowly.
his job is done.
silently he mounts his steel horse,
a mass of throbbing metal and pulsing muscle,
and rides off into the piercing rain.

the sun rises.
a mountain scene, perfectly clear.
a river of endless blue,
rows of brittle pines,
rocky slopes, and crisp fresh air.
wind winding down the valley
gently caresses the trees
as I caress your hand.
the sun sets.
oh, these days that are both
far too long and far too short.

the phantom sighs.
black, red, white, gold
an endless swirl of colors.
this is my mind, faded around the edges.

wind winding around the fortress walls,
stirring up clouds of dust,
probing for a weakness, searching.
there is no end in sight.

in the dark,
no one can hear you scream.
in the dark, you can only see so far.
limited foresight,
limited hindsight,
a shaded perception.

halfway down east 17th street sits a small cafe.
a woman sips her coffee at a table,
scanning faded lines of a half-forgotten novel.
smoke rises, circling above her head.
in the narrow cobblestone trail,
a white dove pecks at wind-scattered crumbs.
the women sets down her cup, enlightened.
tossing her cigarette over her shoulder,
the woman departs.

the demon leans in closer.
pain is for the weak,
she scoffed with a glint in her eye.
I cannot take this any more.
a small incision is all that's needed,
the poison drips in slowly.
I cannot take this any more.
one small bite and down you go:
the red-eyed twin-demons of fear and deceit
have had their fill.
I cannot take this any more.
the queen sits cold, broken.
her blank canvas marred,
her fears unspoken.
She cries, her tears reflected in the silver mirror.

here I sit in my sanctuary,
the eye of the storm.
half-forgotten treasures, sleepy pauses.
you are by my side.
however, not all are pleased.
the crowds seek excitement, anger, violence.
their screams echo in the distance,
their firebombs approach.

the sun rises.
a row of pretty perfect homes perched in a row --
shouldn't there be more than this? --
manifest their owner's delight.
the wind howls, the clouds change.
a mountain fog approaches.
the darkness falls in slowly,
overcoming each one.
the sun sets.
these are the end-times.

the clock chimes in the dead of night,
its silver peal ringing through the air.
the black boot thrusts downward.
choking, gasping.
his pale eyes beg,
why have you forsaken me?
now he knows all the tricks.
the phantom departs.

the sun rises.
tongues of flame leap into the sky,
slowly burning the perfect houses.
smoke rises, circling above the city.
embers, ash, envy, rage.
destruction creeps down the street,
demolishing all in its path.
the phantom surveys the land, and mourns -
a world both dead and alive with fire.
as the last charred timbers sink into the debris,
the clock chimes.
the sun sets.
this is the way the world ends.

you see this?? I can be this.
this is what I shall become.

1 comment:

  1. So I wrote this today at school, since I did basically nothing in all of my classes.

    Anyway, it is HIGHLY symbolic, and somewhat autobiographical.

    I had a lot of fun re-using words, phrases, and symbols in different parts - see how many connections you can find.

    Part of my inspiration for this were T.S. Elliot's poems - see if you can find the allusions to The Waste Land and The Hollow Men.