Dark Poetry Prose Poetry August 18, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

08-18-05 thursday 12:01am

isn't it supposed to get better. not worse. when from the edge of your life you look down from and attempt to calculate which would be less hurtful. to keep looking down or to leap off of your sullen perch.

there are no means left for to relate that which once bet fortune upon favor. as we would sit poker-faced at those tables. sure we couldn't lose. but knowing so certainly that someone had to.

who it was in the end that left the table with empty pockets. i'll never know.

because it wasn't me. and as far as i can tell it wasn't you.

could the gods have fallen asleep as we traipsed through their garden?

what seeds i retain of, i will plant, someday when, the soil is rich enough. and the sky not too dark.

dig your holes, if you must, but i don't want to bury anymore dead.

i don't have the answers. but i know some of the questions.

should you ever find yourself compelled to ask them.

then at last, we might have something in common.

08-18-05 thursday 9:53pm

don't look at me like that with eyes that say nothing.

speaking in silences and pauses of things for which there are no words.

don't pretend you know who i am when all you've seen is darkness. don't you ever wonder what the light would reveal?

nailed to your chair. arms clenched in a pensive pose. to do, whatever it is must be done. if only you knew what that was.

don't greet me as i am shadow and leave in it still. turn on the lights. reveal, not just what i am, but what you are as well.

08-18-05 thursday 10:35pm

the chair breathed her as you sat in it. creaked and swiveled with the motion of her thoughts. softly. quietly. but never silent.

the walls looked at with the stern gaze they always have. faceless eyes wearing shadows like mascara.

the cigarette died and she lit another. because she could. isn't every decision made that same way. not for choice, but because of circumstance. and the ticks of habit that bloat fetched into the deepest veins as they float so close to the surface of your skin.

the chair positioned itself under her condolences as the funeral in her head proceeded gracefully toward the burial grounds.

a hole in the earth. deep enough to hold. a stone to mark when it had ended.

and shortly after she knew, life would go on, just as it always did.