03 November, 2014

Oh, Torturous Creator

Oh, Torturous Creator

When did her shell become so hollow as this?
I wouldn't know her then; was barely thought. 
I know her so well this day, albeit to wish not. 
Taught me to wish not, seeds me to want not. 
Gave not so I should not expect e'er receive. 
She'd have me to be grateful of her sacrifice. 
Gave her first born to a void, and avoidance. 
Taught oh so well.  What I expect, not a thing. 

She was blinded, as only sad mother can be. 
Blinded of how she made me pay her debts. 
Cruelty of her love knew endless boundaries,
As I knew nothing of her crimes upon herself. 
To hate herself, clearly; more than hating me. 
I wonder how I'd take so long to see it there. 
She only found too late she did not want this,
She knew always she'd never love of herself. 

What should my heart respond to more I beg?
Tell me how to pity this hanging fool, as I die!
She was all I'd have, as she'd have it, so was. 
She made sure I'd not accept any face value
If it would not bare of her face, or her pardon. 
Pardon me, my need to vegetate weights me. 
How do I cast out memory when its all gone?
Nor cast her off, trail of blood runs too deeply. 

How does one learn need when it should be?
She, an admirable teacher, I her able student. 
She built me to bare her scars forever, amen. 
She taught me to hurt the ones I love so well.
I would to have been my own, yet fear not so. 
I see her, just behind my eyes, our juxtapose. 
All is fair in love and war, her debts to be paid
And my own could pass to mine own instead. 

I need her to be inside her shell when I come. 
She is not, cannot, has not been able to sing. 
I would trade it all, would give it back, take on
The torment instead if I could draw her forth. 
I've died for her a hundred fold; so one more?
Is but a drop of blood, and it would be easier. 
My maker, my creator, builder of my machine,
And destroyer of my worlds and all my heart. 

I could hate her easily, or thought I could but
I love her still, as I hate myself; as she taught. 
My love is sick, as my heart becomes sicker,
But I feel she knew what I was from my start. 
The difference is barely slighter, but it is there. 
Hers was done unto her, as mine unto myself. 
She would be the victim of her circumstance. 
I should be my subject of death and rebirth.

This is only the beginning of my torment, now.
Is barely a beginning of her agonised defeat. 
As she is so defeated, I fear the depths I find. 
What is to be darker than this ebony current?
What should be more savage and spiteful as
She tips into the cradling abyss; take me too.  
She should not have left a mark upon the soil. 
Much too late for me; this machine is closed. 


02 November, 2014

No Seconds

No Seconds

It is pitiful, and she is to be pitied if anything. 
Meant for all things handled in second hand. 
Second class in nature; a second class heart. 
Seconds ticking away and leave no seconds. 

It was always like this, only the sets change. 
Always an afterthought, always all thats left. 
Always second to inherit the scraps of a life. 
Never room enough, always to wait her turn. 

Spin on, wither in the abstract, fade in focus. 
Frayed into obscurity, doubles the exposure. 
And it becomes a photo negative, a reversal. 
Twists her further inward, adds another fold. 

Can only wind so tightly before critical mass. 
It must implode before a new heaven is born. 
Every tear to coalesce into embers for a star. 
Every cell, every molecule, of colliding worlds. 

Reimagining constellations, reanimating mass
And all matters of seconds drifts out of focus. 
The edges of a photograph, its event horizon, 
Hungrily, to devour what was, now to what is. 

And still what should not pity her destruction?
Gifts this second hand cosmos to love alone. 
Eternal witness of seconds, second chances, 
No longer wills to bare false witness; is stone.