ImpasseSubmitted by The Pen on Sun, 07/21/2013 - 20:46
Several years back I wrote an anthem/poem to express the visualization of a dream I had many times in my past. I believe this to be an expression of an idea that couldn't be more apparent than today. I am sharing it with you all in the hope that you all find your voice by whatever means, to express the way you see the world today. I share this in the hope that it may bring beauty to the demise of the world as we knew it and raise the world we choose to have...because we are at an impasse in this world.
My toes angled the ledge,
split-rigid from drought and plague-
gnarling carries the chasm up my brow,
warm with precipitous ailment.
At my back thousands for count,
Red men ill with thirst for waters,
whose reservoirs wailing up slits of swollen earth
bleat boiling rains yellowed with oxide and sulfur,
my spine snapped from chill
and the flood o'er my eyes burnt as fire through dead woods,
blisters of sweat scream from my forehead,
peeled from it the teeth of steam rising and swooning...
Magnificent tremors in the air below,
tight frequencies shifting the dark space,
each shift an electric grind to iron slivers
shattered outwards in deep persimmon shrieks,
as glass slid crossed itself in jagger it's fine-edges angle...
No slopes or valleys crescent or shape the lands here,
a tear to salt to dust to wind to these dead places rally-
bones; as brittle crackling leaves,
wrought by It's weathering's lash
out from-in flesh chapped and permeable,
stretched up and tugging the ruby sky...
at the edge down, flickering sparks fell incinerate amber,
I imagined them fireflies caught deep in the pupils of my love,
before they thin and singe and gray
and ash in the swirling muzzles of muzzled gales.
It would be easier to swirl amongst them my love,
ragged-slung as the lash-point of a whip,
for these hands are steeple-pressed in weariness-
their very symbolism affects not soul or sight...
The canyon has no gates,
all are granted this life spent and thinned,
beating on stone and clay reddened knuckle-
attempts at repentance to straight-jacket and iron cast...
in the outreaches despair from the despairing,
wailing from the wailers,
scorn from the aggrieved...
grief come and rooted these lands-
wafting it's stretched follicles tense as cables,
They once were with name,
these drapes dragging stumped-feet,
o'er dust as fine as sands as fine as beaded crystals,
refined to conductors-
a simmering amassment crossed and trail,
of toe-tips pulling free,
reduced in quick flame to the conditioned fester and angst,
they have no thought or burden for these words I writ,
they have no perception as I did perceive,
they were sucked to enslavement and hollow eye-
a temperament undead and machine...
I am looking out upon the seer of Hell,
and you are not here.