Twelve, that's the number wound around
my neck. All thin sheen and golden core, yet the innermost parts seem
more fragile than that silver cloak draped across her shoulders.
Morpheus, why do you do this to me? The river was once clear and
cold, sustaining all the verdant fields as far as the eye could see.
Now it blackened and thick, a red film like a scab clinging to the
surface, as the trees die and the flowers wilt.
That wall I
built with my two smooth skinned hands stands up on the hill, slowly
falling apart. The sharp edges worn smooth by rain and wind. Little
gaps between the stones, like cavities in a smile, let the wind rush
through howling like some kind of demonic flute. That wall, it offers
no shelter, no compassion, no escape. It's not like her.
So when you gripped me tight, that's
when I felt it deep inside, growing inside me, a rush of something
warm and heavy. But as that wall crumbles so does my resolve. The
little holes let in the sunlight and I blink against it. You were
warm like the light, but I never was blinded by you. Then the rain
came, hard and driving, piercing my flesh like little needles. You
pierced me like the rain, but you never purified me like the cold
water does. Resurrection is insurrection against the universe. The
order of the world is upended when you try to bring back the dead.
The little bodies where a soul sat, what's the purpose? The skin
rots, and the soul is forgotten, who can say it was ever there? Eyes
shine with an inner light because we imagine they do. They're little
pebbles on a creek bed, reflecting the light of a living thing.
If
they eyes are the window to the soul, what is the mouth? If the heart
is the throne of love, what are the bowels? With those eyes you slash
the breath from me. Beauty, it's that lie we tell ourselves as we
scramble from the impartial jaws of the abyss. But when I see your
eyes reflect the light, I want to believe.
