StagnantSoul

A spectre linger listlessly in my road. He stands, staring blankly at me and for a moment I think he means to harm me. Or perhaps, he is my reflection. He merely continues his cool appraisal, never budging an inch, never making a sound. I glide past him, this spectre in my road, and as I do I feel gentle hands grasp mine. He turned me to him, kisses me and releases me.

I go on my way then, calm and silent. I think back to that kiss, those frozen lips pressed against my temple and realize what he meant. It was an offering of peace, of love. He let me pass because he gazed upon this living man fleshy and naked to his unblinking eyes and fell in love. Not in the sense of sex and romance, but he loved me just the same. Perhaps someday I will take his place.

Someday I will stand in your road and when you come upon me, do not fear. Instead, walk by and as you do, touch my arm and kiss me. For I will be gone from this world by then, but my love for you will hold me here.

Phantom Lullaby

I'm falling to pieces, slowly but surely I'm coming apart. It isn't such a bad thing, this de-evolution, but I must admit that it hurts like hell.

I've grown weary of this shell, this casing of madman. I need to break free, I need to escape before the final days, my time is ticking down, my moments are numbered I'm descdneing toward darkness, ascending from life. I fear I've become less and less like a man and more like a phantom of starlight, a phantom that whispers in moonlit glades of masquerades that march on until damnation strikes them down.

I tell stories of poetry and fill hearts with a lusty roar that echoes on through the wee hours, until the parties wind down and the drunks go on home and we're eaten alive by our sins. Gods, its almost unbearable some days.

In fact, I think I've come to the end of my rope. I end this now, and then I end myself.

My fingers are aching and bloodied. My face is a wreck, a mirror of heroin. My eyes are half-open, my fists are fully clenched. I'm ready to "rock n' roll". If you think to dance with me, step hard boy. I'm not about to hold back. The whole wide world is behind and you're the only one that's left.

I am an anthem of defiance. I am a heart-wrenching fool. I am a rhyme, a riddle, a madness. I am the song of my children. I could give my everything, but I prefer to feast upon you.

For the anti-establishment. For the sole survivor. For the man in black...

Fuck you. Written in the blood of my enemies.

That's all I have to say. That's all that's left in me. And as I begin to come undone, the musics stops. My riddle's done.

Reflected in the amber face of the sunset on the lake. My face is a legion of sinister lines that grow deeper as time begins to wane. Time is soften. Roland Deschain would perhaps say the world has moved on. It hasn't. I think perhaps I am beginning to move on. Time will halt, it will speed, it will slow and flow lethargic like morphine through an IV. Saddening are the thoughts of a man who feels that nothing lies before him or behind. Nothing, that is, but a goal, a grail, an obsession. My Dark Tower, you might say.

Unfortunately, my thoughts in this are limited. At least that the moment. Perhaps one day long from now I'll expand on them, make them more than vague ideas. Perhaps a theory, perhaps a fact. No, on second thought, never a fact. Facts are far too volatile. People die over facts. I'm not yet convinced that there is a such thing myself. Fact is based on the opinion and perceptions of people who state them. That makes them subject to change, subject to become invalid. That, in itself, defies the very definition of a 'fact'. Oh well, no use debating what is and what isn't reality. The boundaries of that word and what it implies are far too broad, and far to blurred to bother with preaching about them. Ignore my senseless conjecture. Its late and I begin to question why I'm even doing this silly thing in the first place. Forgive me my sins, dear friends. You're the closest things to gods I know on this world.

Evermore.

I woke today with a halo. A halo of guile and guilt and forgotten realities I'd prefer to divorce than bear any longer. I try to escape my memories, but friends, there is no escape. You can no more outrun the things you've done than you can outrun a locomotive. In fact, sins are somewhat like just that. The more you have the heavier it gets, the faster it seems to move until you can do nothing but wait and hope that when it catches you, you can get off the tracks before you're swallowed by the gaping maw of your own regret. Seems a little despondent to write that, horrible analogy and all, but I must admit it fits with me. I ran through periods of mild discomfort to an entirely unpleasant sense of incompleteness today. It kind of burrowed its way into me and it weighs heavy on my heart. There are too many things I would re-do in an instant, and not enough things I can find to be proud of. I suppose I write this because doing it this way always seems to get the best results. If I go to writing something, be it poetry or journal entry or otherwise, with a plan for what I mean to say it always sounds forced and fake. You can't make yourself be a good writer, you can't forge emotional literature and you can't show people how you feel with a plan. You have to let it kind of pour out of you the way it comes. Raw, uncaring, impersonal. My very nature suggests that I should write this way. I certainly live like that. Then again, I'm a riddle. Even to myself.

Each time I think I've uncovered something, some kind of truth that might lead to a self-discovery, a thousand more questions and contradictions are raised. I often wonder if anyone else goes through the same or if its only me. Other times, I know it is. How could it be that everyone feels this way and never speaks of it? The questions of your own identity would drive you mad lest you expose your pondering to others. That's what I beleive anyway. Or at least, I think I do. Like I said, I'm a riddle. Even to myself.