Tuesday 5/30/2006 11:14:00 PM

I want to make it right, but it already is. Can't paste those fallen petals back on the stem. New ones have already taken their place.

Anxiously following every note. To see. To feel. Where next they'll go. Please don't turn me over. They'll never sound the same again.

I've been working for years on learning how to hear what can't be said. I know the smell. Dense and dank like grandma's basement. Full of memories unkempt. Moist feet and dusty hands as we'd examine the papers. The jewelry. The photographs. Every trinket time had poisoned us to forget.

There is no song I can sing. Nor instrument other than this. So I listen. As the music pierces the glass. Refracting. Colorizing the lament of the storm's passage.

It drains out. In a thoughtless stream. Into somewhere darker. These virulent machines that mimic the beat of dying hearts. Every pulse of sound as magnetic as it is artificial. Its synthetic drug pouring into my ears. Teasing this corpse with an illusion of life. Its mirrors embedded deep below my skin. Falsely animating the phantoms that dance over their graves.



Gasping like a lantern lost in the woods. The crackle of the fuel failing the only evidence of it struggle. As the light surrenders to its surroundings.



A thousands times.

With every heartbeat.

All we are is the struggle.

Life is a statutory rape of the sensibilities. All we have is consent.

When all these drugs finally fail us. We are what's left.

A symphony of yes's and no's. A broken violin scratching across a nervous bow. Every string stretched as far as it will go.

Making music even left untouched.

It waits.


Those beaten angel's wings flailing to move the wind.

And failing.

Everything too quiet.

This is all that it is.


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