Wednesday, January 8, 2014

the weather, once it's mentioned

All his darlings dead before him, he can't put his tattered mind to rest. All the hours watching shadows as they slip and stick. Every lamp left by the wayside. The open bathroom to light the grimy halls. The stories on the television adrift on this tide of tears. Weary from the very moment waking, tired as his dreams grind down. The crawling dust each step inspires.

The words are still, clinging to the shabby curtains. The words are slow, crawling down the wall. A color of eyes so far forgotten her gaze sweeps through every frosted wind. The bluff touch, the startled whisper. Your name a sharp percussive start, the street as empty as a story's grave. The frozen earth too cold for dreaming. The house so bright and thoroughly bereft.


So all the world has gone to winter. The old songs dry and sparkling in his heart. The frost clings in whiskered crystals. The strange cohesion of rough words and dry lips, teeth fouled with grime and smoke. The greasy eyes trodden down with weather. The glaze and glare of nothing more to say. The belly betrays, then the back, then the senses. A heart just left out to ache and parley. He speaks aloud the spell that destroys him, weighing down the blackness as the stars just fall away.

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