Of my complaint 27July16
Is this to be my discomfort?
…My lifetime friend?
I’ve coddled so many in my time I almost began to think I’d satisfied my quota.
Life has a way of turning things inside out just when it lets you relax your guard.
That’s not a light at the end of the tunnel, no it’s a train headed right at you.
Artists suffer. It’s like its part of the creative nature.
The price paid for being in such close proximity to the essence of existence.
Mose’s face reflected so much he wore a veil and even he was hobbled by his humanity.
So we mortals that cling to the worldly all while professing our righteousness are chained to illness, disease, physical and mental handicaps and conditions should be no surprise.
While an artist, lo a writer or worse yet a poet courting death pursuing enlightenment in a close dance with the evils and goodness should not expect discomfort but expect, no look forward to it.
Alas, it’s done. I’ve done all that I did. I am what you read, what you see.
Forgive me. I have not been a good steward of your blessings.
Incinerate this body when it fails me.
Don’t parade it in repose or dressed gaily with powered face, rosy cheeks.
No fire it to ash til lifted by the winds disperse into the open air.
I’m finished. I am complete. I’ve accomplished what I have.
I’ve finished these impossible Herculean tasks lain across my shoulders, borne the weight of my cross to arrive at my Golgotha
Sad Golgotha of useless dust and sand,
Miserable of bathing sun, useless moons, bereft of human souls only the desperate seeking to drift into mindless eternity.
So is my last place.
Rather to feed the flame til the flesh crackles into the essence it sprang from minus the divine breath.
I am finished and have no defense for my stewardship or providence.
I am as you see me now,
a solemn study in the absurdity of happiness, the pursue of happiness, …love.
No flash this carcasses til it crackles.
I am done and await Virgil’s companionship.
His is what I crave staring into the cave,
the next whatever.
I cannot summon enough spirit to care however the mystery excites me beyond this light.
I’m drawn to its damp peerless night. It comforts me.
Stoke the brazier higher, hotter.
Let no morsel escape its appetite.
I’m finished with this opera.
It reeks of freshness, purity and hope.
Doves flutter about as if some virgin beckons.
I wretch at the thought rathering instead my beloved ravens plucking the sinew from brave warriors and the cowardly. ~ drexel
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