Sticks

The preacher was a firebrand- a living flame, the light of truth.
He moved me more than words. More than words, his words, the words that flowed and encased me and made me more whole than I had ever been, more whole than anyone had any right to be. That was why I did it, the religious scene. It was a buzz, a feat of escapism otherwise unattainable. God was a whole other high.

And I took that preacher’s words, and I kept them where he said- in my heart, in the flesh, in the mind. I delighted in trapping those words so close to the rotting carcass of my soul, a soul which still pulsed with a grim life, like a twitching corpse.

I took the preacher’s words, and carried them home. I kept them, you see, in a box, the box beside my bed, held them close and took pleasure in entrapping them in my cold dark room, so close to the stench of my soiled sheets. I couldn’t destroy their purity, but a part of me hoped they’d be unhappy here. As I was.

I had the words, but they were unruly, and so I made them mine- the lyrical twist of a verb, noun, preposition; poetry, to the bone. the bare bones. I took my words, they were mine, and I took them to the street and I sat, in the middle of the town, and my hate for the crowds was unspeakable. So I gave them what they deserved; I cleansed them, every one, with the fire in my soul. I brought them to their knees, and they begged me to set them free. To set their souls free. And I did. Every one.

I made the words theirs, and each of them took my words, held them close, in the dark pit of the spirit. Every word entombed, lodged like a bullet a thousand times over, in the hearts and minds, the brains, the soft tissue and muscle and bone, and each one was- home. And the words had passed on.

They came for me, one morning- at the breaking of dawn. And as the cockerel crowed once, twice, they took me. The words- they told me that they had been following me, ever since. Ever since the beggining. They said that they had never been mine, not ever, none of them was ever mine to take, nor mine to give. So I cried, and begged them, but they said that it was over.

They had died, every one, too many times. There was nothing left of soul in them.

Sticks

Fyfe

Joined February 2008

  • Artist
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Artist's Description

For everyone who was ever taught not to play with fire.

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