Monday, November 16, 2009

surrogate

The door is held open, despite the hour, despite the weather. The door is held open, and all manner of things leave while the wind pours in. Every asking is like that, something escapes striving for that lack. Something is exchanged is the transfer of flesh and feel. Every exit an entrance, every harrowing loss still yet a gain.

They have made machines of all of us, with their closed eyes and explanations. They have made us subject to the objectionable, inventing better mousetraps, creating timeless vessels. Cold hands hold us down as we stir in the depths of dreams, bright wings beat against the blackened windows beneath the mad dead light of the voiceless stars. Ours paths have become calloused in the wan daylight, our treads artificial scars falling upon the fleeing of shadows. Passion is pale reflection, love artless commerce. The scales we topple, the torches we burn, our bitter secrets buried in shameful graves. All the lies lived, all the towers running away from the earth, all these painful separations meant to bind us to flag and faith.

I often outlive my usefulness, walking some little dog, lifting some child upon my shoulders. I nod, I listen, I weigh in upon some madness. I offer a stiff shoulder and a glib tongue when this measure of misery spills. Internal and external, the blur of method, the disregard of intent. Own your actions, make your story. Build your own bridge back to the world. Never mind the meaninglessness. Never mind that no-one will know. I serve these dead cults of works and wings, gentle and brutal and nearly always wrong. Something must be bartered, something must be given. In the dismissed absence of sense and mercy, in the abandoned hour, I hold the door open, holding the heart of this pitiful barrier until something better finds takes my place.

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