The sky was grey, and even the words people spoke were grey; they curled in the density of the morning fog, ethereal smoke from a dimension that offered nothing but looming depth and an overwhelming desire to change.
Chaos
Amidst the white glare of the stars
you reach out your hands and feel only
the flames scorching your fingers.
Blind, you remain; yet you are the one to see
[the plagued skin of the defiant]
Deaf, you remain; yet you are the last to hear
[the warning screams of the fallen].
From whence the crying comes you consider not
because whilst the noises and voices conflate
into a disembodied greyscale hum, untranslatable-
a labyrinth of intangible faces to one’s sanity bate-
you stay mute by throwing down all reason
so that they may skitter away to beleaguer
the crackēd bones of those already desolate.
Repulsed by the taste of your own venom
its pungent acridity pervading every bud
you spit on the entrails toss’d safe astray
and rely on the imprints in the dirt for guidance
but the ground before you crumbles away
and you find yourself lost without ever taking a step.
Seeing still all visages through the smoke of the pyre
wondering why their masks are dripping at the edges-
Weep; glass tears scrape at the film clouding your eyes
-and fear- then, if you are finally seeing clear
for all you shall discover when the sun doth rise
when the shade departs and the weak-hearted cower
be the pyrrhic ravages o’ crimson ash mix’d with burnt souls-
all the carnage of Armageddon a simple hand-mirror.
Now Greyscale
Now greyscale is the shade of clouds o’er light obscuring the colors of horizon in sight the rays once spread focused on solely a spot from whence no wrong can be differed from right. Whilst sodden down minds and beaten hearts lay they sway in the light wind of day no psalms, no thoughts, no exchanges to pay Yet a sorrowful cry that whittles so slow that flakes of gold and white bud have no-say and leave body and heart with nary a way to bring back their laurels and chorus for the grey tied in-side hath naught more-- And dreams are filled with memories so few Paintings of gold that have lost their hue Feathers ruffle and wave, ride low under leaf Black wings and dry nest bring arms take siege but scattered reflections do not shelter make. The wind blows; but there is naught left to take cry they who mimic hath all still to do. Nary are the words, passionate in meaning A heightened gale, an open sail; free?-- no, but knotted and thus the white and the black are cloaked from seeing. They that have become nothing but wisps of dull smoke slip silent through our yearning fingers and memories of cold and dark are all the mind doth bespoke. The details fade away one by one left an empty frame for life itself is grey until the right comes along and gives it a brand-new hue, never the past same; But that day is rare, whilst the usual: It is only an illusion, a self-constructed delusion Created by hope; they deny, but Hope is forever greyscale and her companion, Regret, is just-- there-- wavering steam until the day passes and her eyes gleam from behind offering a deep sigh with a gaze lost yet focused a lonely figure among the wildflowers; she cries a Visit to a place with genesis long before the heavens’ seam burned cold and blue hands brush away the mist to kiss the early dew Ears turned to the twittering of the cloak’d paroquets They muse of a tired existence in a language no longer decipherable to the mind as twisted as the vines of penance wrapped around your hands The water sings--oh!-- everything is singing but his voice is hoarse and the melody a little-- just the slightest- bitter The faintest fragrance, so light that it ought not have been smelled remains.
Place of Travel
She always meets them in a place of travel, when the mode of expectation is polite quiet and careful small talk. She sits by one in a rollercoaster car–before the ride, he asks her where she comes from, and she laughs and answers in passing. He’s from another city. They share contact information once they exit the ride, once the thrill of shouting a conversation whilst speeding through the night sky above the lights of the amusement park below wears off slightly. He messages her after the fact, and they pass a few texts in exchange. Her responses slow. They met once during an intersection of travel—that’s all it’ll ever be.
When it happens the second time, she wonders what she’s doing to end up in conversations so easily with strangers. She’s on a plane for home–she arrives late in a rush, staggering into her seat with a heated flush across her cheeks. The man who has the seat beside her says hi and introduces himself. Well, she thinks, as least we’re traveling to the same place. The flight is long; they spend time chatting, checking out the media systems on the backs of the seats in front of them, listening to music–this is fun, she thinks. She gazes outside the window as the plane begins to touch down, watching the yellow and orange lights below signal the end of their little interlude. They find each other on social media. He’s years older than her. Later, he sends her a message. She doesn’t respond. Same flight, same destination, but she tells herself it’s asymptotic. A rollercoaster, a plane—she thinks afterwards, I wonder if this means something.
While we were standing in line to vote yesterday, another college student and I struck up a conversation. Even after polling was done, we sat together outside and chatted for over an hour until I had to leave for my evening class–but not without exchanging contact information! This kind of thing is why I place so much value on just talking to others. You never know when you’ll make another friend. I was so happy, seriously.
A little brown chicken
A little brown chicken picks up some feathers
in her beak, left behind by peacock grand
and arranges them, so carefully, among her own
So now may she glisten with the greens,
and blues, and violets
of the bird known for his beauty and regality and ambition
She struts and totes her new coat a-round
Have you walked the imprints of a peacock? For there is
something about the height of your beak, and the
volume of your song, and the pace of your steps--
and she does know the footsteps.
Yet when alone, in dark and unseen, she undoes her -do
and is still a chicken.
Absurdist
“Transparent am I as the glass,” said the snake to the mouse at her front. “Trust, a sip you may take.” And she collected a drop of wine glistening scarlet to where it hung above her friend.
Enraptured, the mouse climbed for it, claws extended. His friend’s jaw slighted, and another droplet appeared in the same place.
He did see, then, the flame that reared its head under the snake’s own– but quiet he remained.
As the fire caught to her scales, the snake cried, “Ah, traitor! Why have you not warned me?”
To which the mouse asked: but was I the one? And off he scampered, back to his burrow, safe in the dirt.
Drawing: “Absurdist” by myself. This one was actually selected by my AP Literature teacher to be used in posters representing a school theatre production!
RGS Journal 