He made his way to the cemetery –
The moon was full and his belly empty,
Bottle in hand, feet heavy,
Hair clung to his neck like leaches.
He pulled his jacket up around his chin,
Took a breath and exhaled winter.

The darkness was thick –
The only discernable light came from the moon’s reflection,
Catching his pale skin and the cold face of stone,
Monuments to the dead,
His grave waiting,
Like a patient,
Like a dog at the door –
It will be my turn soon,
I will be let in and all will be forgotten.

His shoes clipped; hands stuffed in pockets and head bowed
Painted a mournful image, not unseen before,
But his was a new page in aging book of eulogies.
Time passes these days and nothing is remembered,
We scratch at the surface for something to cling onto,
But in the absence of something tangible,
We construct labyrinths of meaning,
That confuse and aid denial in its desperate search for victims.

Oh, the solemnity of regret is heavier than life,
And could be measured by the temper of the evening,
That bore this lonely figure closer to death.
He does not know it.
Do any of us fragile beings?
The one truth of life we try so hard to forget,
And as we build walls of fantasy to keep out fear,
In creeps reality – a blind assassin – and there it makes its bed,
Warm and moist, perfect conditions for growth.
And we wonder why the itch,
Why the growing terror,
Why time seems so illusive – could not catch it if we tried.

Gentle rains, and a fingering wind, raise his chin –
This life is a mausoleum, how awful it must be for the angels
To look upon this catastrophe,
At least they can cry,
But their tears are not enough to save us.
He knows the spirits are watching, seething,
As he walks in silent desperation, his pale face a cast of shadows,
Nothing could penetrate the gloom in his heart,
It’s his only defence.

He stops, no good reason, and looks toward the night sky,
Letting the soft rain caress his face.
Arms stretched out, an historic smile breaks,
So unfamiliar he becomes self conscious.
Resuming the pose of the mourning
He swigs from the wine bottle,
Digs into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdraws a cigarette,
Fetches a lighter,
And sends a bloom of smoke into the evening tide;
Drawing back deeply he continues on his way,
Under the watchful eye of the moon and her cast of nymphs.

The wine is sweet; he drinks with intent now,
To lose himself, to forget, to embrace the darkness and fall.
He can feel it, the absence of fear and the recklessness of desire.
Jesus and Mary turn their heads,
Angels fly confused around his head – he’s not listening.
I cast away memory,
Nothing will remain but a graveyard of my own,
Overgrown, abandoned,
Head stones worn from rain, occupants unknown,
I will lock the gates and never return.

Her head stone is simple, no statue,
Just a timely inscription,
“Remember Me”.
He finishes his cigarette, flicks it nonchalantly,
And drinks the remains of the bottle,
Staring at the eulogy to his fallen love.
Another empty bottle,
Another lonely night of wanting,
Curse this remembering,
I curse the full moon we shared and now I am a prisoner.
Love is a thief and you stole my heart,
If I can’t be with you I want you to let me be.

Possessed by the dead, by the remaining light of love,
He smashes the empty bottle,
Takes a shard and engraves a line on his arm.
Blood let to soothe the pain,
To cure a poisoned heart,
Nothing left so long can survive the ravages of time.
Tears, blood and rain mingle in the darkness,
Exchange wisdom, and choose to heal the victim,
The moons decree,
A final reprieve for this walking eulogy.

A ghost feathers past,
The trees sway like skeletons at play
And the night beckons him on,
Further and further into its belly,
Like a whale,
Hungry for the sacrifice, for the taste of the redeemer,
Lonesome travellers fare prey to the sigh of the evening –
Virgin veins and virgin sex,
Zealous lovers with a fervent desire,
To destroy, to complete, to finish, to become nothing,
Wail at the moon whose bosom offers sanctuary.

The tide rushes on inside him,
He starts running, the rain falls harder,
You could not distinguish the tears from the rain from the blood.
Visions do the dance macabre before him –
Her body, his,
Their sex and games,
The wine and cigarettes,
A fallen tourniquet and sweat drenched hair,
The absence of pain;
A choice, a pact, a decision to become one –
And now life has another prisoner, born from regret and conflagrated by memory
That clings to its host with spider like dexterity.
I am Lazarus, here me now,
Take me back to my love; take me back to where I belong.
I did not ask for this reincarnation – I am alone and empty.

He falls to his knees in supplication,
Tearing at his face, the very fabric of his existence –
I beseech you – send me back to where I came from!
The nights embrace closes in,
Lifts him to his feet, he cannot run any longer,
If life will not grant his wish, he will take his life
With his own two hands and fall from grace to meet his love once more.
It’s a call, a cry, a beautiful kind of pain –
Angels turn their eyes from the scene and whisper private lullabies,
As the blood flows freely and a life descends –
Who will bury this body, this child of mine,
Who will pity the boy, who will see the sacrifice and not the weakness?
As the sun rises on this scene what will the day make of it,
Who will write his eulogy?



Joined November 2007

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