Dark Poetry Prose Poetry January 17, 2006 Dark Poetic Prose

01-17-06 tuesday 10:36pm

the page closed suddenly, though in no way was it finished. the blue in her fingers stopping short as the tug of the moon beseeched the ocean to rise again. she thought if waves would only come i could move again. like i did when skin was still pink and the world someplace i wanted to be, though i didn't know where in it.

the days tread shallow pools of thought. while the nights immerse themselves in her blackest depths. it should be easier she'd say to herself. it should be easier to live. not survival. not even happiness. but just living. moving through that world out there as if you're a part of it. i wish. no i wonder. if i'll ever remember how to be tangible again.

and if anyone has noticed i'm not. or would notice if i could become.

but enough of asking myself questions whose answers i've already inked. i just want more than anything for the night to be mine. like it used to before i forgot how to find its lips.

the darkness became a pillar. it held up the walls. the ceiling. because a ceiling is neccessary. not to limit us, but to mark how far passed it we've gone. and walls. walls must be between us. or what would be the charm in finding each other. carving those doors.

it was an end. like everything is. one page skulking into the next. can't make them keep reading. can only let those words fall where they may. hope someone has a bucket.

it was a beginning. as all are. slip out of that old skin and wear your new one for a while. tempt them to feel it. to taste. until it too is as old as the one before it.

life is just a sad song we listen to too often. a slow ballad that wants you to weep for it. but i want something fast and loud and unrepentant. something that peels the flesh off pouting lips.

there's no blood. broken skin has realigned. the hour as the crow flies. there is no lingering anymore. just so many destinations. all places as we are. more lost in us that we are in them. hungry for a presense. some touch to eclipse all this silence. bend the blade until it cuts in circles. so that we might remember next time. how pale it gets. that we're not dead, just as near as life will allow.