Dark Poetry Prose Poetry February 8, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

02-08-05 8:27pm tuesday

black box chapping my sight. so much to see in, but it will not open its eyes.

the world is lost. caught in that square blackhole. i resist at first, but then soon allow the memory to taper off.

black box at my back. chatters no more. paints me no pictures of the world. leaves me alone to the blank canvas in my throat. where the words pool in gelid pigments. all shades of alone.

see the dark. made darker now. last glow of humanity gone from my four wall home.

02-08-05 tuesday 9:11pm

a life i don't remember how. i ever lived it as i did. a fractured smile hung in a sling of a frown. a why self-possessing as the heat to the flame. each spawned by the other in a paradox of logic.

which came first? my poetry or my pain?

which is the consequence? the love or the ache?

a man i can't quite picture anymore. not without a photograph. even that voice. such a chorus to my life. the song must end at last.

what i wept for then, now only an aged coloring book. all the outlines only partially filled in. and this worn down crayon heart loose of its paper label. so that i can't tell what color it is.

a life i scarcely can remember. a girl who i've long since lost touch with. somehow still myself. and yet, nothing like her.

02-08-05 11:27pm tuesday

a shadow inside the box. one lone soldier waiting for my attack. it's neither the battles you've won nor those that you've lost. it's what happened during. and after.

see what's next. you've come this far. that's what they're inclined to say. feverish tributaries of the river your life will rage.

in the empty of their hearts it echoes loud. yesterday in a losing debate with tomorrow. and that biased moderator, now.

time occurs in these lives so rapidly. it's hard to keep pace. so many cylinders, but so little intake.

so much power, but so little grace.

you hear it coming from miles way. like lightning rumbling through the clouds. but you can't really feel it. not until it strikes the ground.

02-08-05 tuesday 11:39pm

i ought to say something. and i wanted to, but i can't. we just became so different after the fact.

i guess we always were, but all that pleasure served to mask.

i wanted to try. to leave it as good as when it began. but that must be the unfiullfillable dreams of all hearts when the real end ensues.

not that first attempt. so fragile. nor that second, determined, but still weak. maybe on the third try if we're lucky.

then we begin to learn. or relearn again. the letting go. that sharp pattern of change in the fabric of life. and those stitches missed. that leave so many holes in.

think too much you're bound to write the same way. every wrod becomes a paragraph. every memory a goodbye that just won't stick.

not that i wanted it to, but what other choice was i given.