The Frantic Antic

I grew into the walls of a house whose pattern and character I knew intimately, I knew them all in fact, all the houses; not because I had seen them all you see, but because they were all so much the same.
A builder of straw children would taunt you to disagree, taunt you in all ernest to do so, knowing full well the fragile nature and edges of a soul so young; or so it would have seemed.
But souls are not young or old or limited in others ways assumed, and what would they be if not fragile and what would their center oppose if it could? But yes, once again the walls and the children of straw.
How could one not know of the walls of others` when all are the same, one need not actually see them to know – so knowing is itself proof of a voyeur’s presence within them? and so the children grow and their knowledge of the walls contain them; or so it would have seemed.
In time the walls changed ever so slightly and the children with them; the children who had become the walls agreeing with them as their souls told them though the walls no longer agreed amongst themselves; or so it would have seemed.
And the builder of straw children? well, assumptions must be made you see, because to kill the doubt is to kill the lie, and to kill the lie is deny the voyeur’s presence and in that the walls no longer will contain the child of straw; or so it would have seemed.
But innocence is the soul`s smile, indulgent for a time, at what was not the same from wall to wall, from child to child; and assumptions must be made you see, and sleight of circumstance’s hand would shed its light from day to day into the shadow of an empty life and light a child’s way here and there.
In time the walls no longer held, in fact they never had, but their way to world was lit here and there – the children’s that is; and the builder of straw children? ah! such confusion; because assumptions must be made you see and though they started so much the same they are no longer, the walls that is, and to kill the doubt would kill the lie – and the choice is the emptiness the walls now contain, though not all of them. The children that remain are the walls closing in, you see, on the voyeur’s empty life – and the darkness is the light and the darkness knew it not.

my mind, its a junkyard; all nooks and crannies and
broken doll parts, bald and rough plastic and flaking paint for eyes, rusted rows of once useful things, no longer shiny, but to let go would be to lose them.
to rustle around in here shows nothing new, it all had to have
gotten here somehow, you know, but to let in others would
be to change things – change? and then how would things be found.
still, there are those places that have never seen the light of mind, I’m guessing, so I wander about on occasion still, down rusted
rows of once useful things, all nooks and crannies and broken
doll parts, bald and rough plastic and flaking paint for eyes, and
hope to find an unfound place and brush the rust away.

Scraps and pieces, perhaps poetry, perhaps only a look into the shadows.

Darklings

…a project.

Sun galleon, dreadnought of dragonfly’s wings.
World to world on parchment dust and sepia lines.
Crews asketch with dramatic character,
And flair not true to the real man.
Destinations in pastel and awesome arc,
Something leapt live from the artist’s pad.
World to world on ascending notes and lyric refrain;
Crews aflight, swooping in curves to curving lines.
Sails drawn to moor in distant places, a pirate’s trove of adventures.
…and then I awoke.

rocks… bones…

The vapor trail looked odd, as though it should have started from the horizon, but didn’t. It billowed wide at the base as it arced lazily into the blue afternoon. Some turned to look as I followed it with my eyes.

…and perhaps some survivors.

Some turned at the murmur that rose as the second vapor trail began close alongside the first; the two uncomfortably parallel, symmetrical, and final.

rocks… bones…

A lady in front of me bent over double, and threw up, as the third began next to the second. In the background, far in the distance, maybe twenty more; looking delicate and fine like the white hair of a dog under a microscope, all of them leaning in unison as though they had been groomed only a moment ago.

…scorched and ashen.

The gut wrenching silence was almost enough that you could hear the fourth as it rose, but not quite, not enough to silence the sweat and fear and sudden knowledge that all that had been, that all that you’d imagined would always be, was gone; like dust and mist and sunsets.

rocks… bones…scorched and ashen, and perhaps some survivors; at least for a time.