Fleeting Passage

somewhere locked inside all this mess of flesh, blood and bone is a mind willing to permeate the space and time it takes to think of how to not be. There is no beginning or end in here and only the murmur of an all too broken heart bashed about on the seas of transgressions from others who know exactly what they do.

Amazed and full of wonder I stumble through life with only enough light to guide my ample body from destination to destination. People's faces pass me by in the slow motion of a picture reel and mock my every visual aesthetic that ticks them off. Trying to remain concealed in my tomb of carbon and water, I peer out from time to time in the hopes of catching a state of approval from one of the onlookers, to no avail. The shame is unbearable as if I brought this on myself. The guilt for being too feeble to fix what was torn and shattered by others. You ask what present I have for you upon my return and I tell you no greater a present than the here and now! I speak in riddles for it is my way of weeding out the plants I do not want in my garden and being able to have a more suitable and functional field of knowledge. A give and take and I give so much and take so little and loathe not that fact, excepting on the days that end in "day" and begin with the letters of the alphabet from A to Z. Tears well up at the site of the all knowing eyes of another tortured mass. I see them, the blank faces like a canvas stripped in anger by turpentine's hurtful sting. They walk ever slowly behind and below and about but never aside, and suffer all they yield to and without so much as a single loud audible breathe for fear 'twill be there last. A quick silent gasp and then the slow balancing act to try to keep in the dark shadows in the hopes that the sighted won't see and the audibled won't hear.

Footsteps echo and ping like sonar on the deepest vessel in the bloody waters of hatred. I can feel my own sonar calling me to arms and making me, compelling me to move forward and hold my head proud. They now know what they refused to believe and still they starve for lack of understanding. One can only feed and provide for that to which they cannot nourish themselves with and hope and prey upon the weak as their own sustenance. What I crave is the absolute that isn't there no matter how hard I try to achieve it. It is the ever never attainable brass ring of my peace as there can't be a way out of the maze so long as the maze keeps being altered by Pan. Why must I be so mocked and by the gods that created me as well? My will super-cedes my ability and mocks me too, and everywhere I turn is a jester's hateful laughter telling me to give in and give up. Yards of green grasses beckon me to their seat and trees once climbed long ago call to me in the wind and know I cannot enjoy their boughs no longer so are missing me as much as I them. The glare of the snow drifts reflect the cold dark world I am only allowed to see in blackest of blacks and lightest of greys. I need a colorful spectral allowance to provide my temporals the "eine" they so desire and crave and feen for. There will be no last dance and no last supper and no last drink from the Holy Grail for my lips have succored upon myths no one should be allowed to trespass onto and my eyes befall sights to waken the blind from their sleep. I will go when I give in, when my breathe is acrid and metallic and when my heart feels no more. I will go when I am called if even late and I will go willingly and I will notice no hatred anymore.~mobe's love to her all and her all to her loves.