Wednesday, August 22, 2012

pale thin line. [get up or lay down]

if you were very still, as a child in a classroom
trying so very hard to listen and didn't fidget...
you might hear it.
you might.
the sound is almost imperceptible.
but you'll see it...
just a vivid white line trailing behind a piece of chalk.
i like the way the dust spills just outside of the hardened line,
like a whisper of rebellion reminding that it isn't ever one or the other.
it might seem so, but really it mostly isn't.
one side feels incredibly wild and open;
wide and deep and ripe with the magic of the woods at night.
the other side is a bright city
and you enter the city limits speeding
like some raging pain recklessly driving
leaving track marks
and soon you're disappearing in plain sight
and dancing around the room through the sway
you find it and put it in your bloodstream
and before you know it,
it seeps through your pores
this coat of protection
and right there the pain stops
your mind races to lovely things
switch. on.
it's all the same.
quand meme, darling.
and like bathing in a delicious apathy.
dirty feet and hands
couldn't care less
just languid little happy life in a goldfish bowl
and they think you're at your most beautiful then, don't they?
when you take the form of some gypsy and disappear
it's fascinating living as a ghost
eyes hollow and always, always smiling
all wrapped up in clean white sheets
but dirty and black eyes and skinny like a model
it's all ashes and blood and bones and smoke
and some broken song
go faster
go slower
it doesn't matter, just keep moving.
one will catch up.
just move until the pain or the painkiller wins.
one will win. they always do.
and you'll stop moving. you'll just cease.
it will go terribly wrong and it will cease.
and the pain will engulf you like a black hole.
so crawl back, if there's time left on your side to that jagged little line
on the other side...
it's something so beautiful,
but it hurts like hell
the magic of the woods at night is met with the terror of the unknown
and you feel every single pulse
every single memory
every single one
even when you sleep
wide awake singing hymns in the middle of the night
looking fear dead in the face while it shakes you
walking straight through some valley of the shadow of death
and it's never quite the way the words sound
pure suffering
and clinging to some invisible hand of hope that most often
feels like nothing more than air
but you keep moving
you keep singing from inside where you believe
just move until that love wins
because it always will.
and peace is the pulse
and healing invades
and then the morning comes...

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