prelude

there is a dead eye on the wind
off-centered and troubled,
it follows my trembling dance around calloused corners.
the air beneath it grows too innervated
to lift off my shoulders and swallow…
the hallowed voice within demanding release
spits piety like rain.

i bend my defiance frog-legged beneath me,
denying her lioned-breathed prophecy of promise.
the wailing walls anchor my disbelief as i bury
myself beneath them, waiting for the sour heavens to die…
the gaping socket spurts like consumed wives;
in the vacancy of birth it offers immunity;
in the absence of reason it offers distance.
it waits for me to see and fill it with certainty…

within the wrinkled furrows surrounding it,
beyond the scowl of ancient anger, the spirals
of anticipation wait for a sign
before it descends to suck me up within it.
the cold spider-limbed thrust traps
dried leaves of hope into life,
racing frenzied to escape the six-inch flight above ground.
shadows fall with realization i will not rise to it again.
i will not make it whole; the unyielding
eye remains impotent to breed my desire…
to stir words from me in pursuit of the wind.

i refuse to look twice upon futility,
to continue searching gray matter
for substance to fill the eye…
my weariness is cold, an icy spine of indifference.
truth is gone, split from turn to turn
into lines too twisted to follow.
the naked tirade above only pushes me further
inside the pillar of salt.

soliloquies...
prelude
ja allen