I answered the door expecting a salesman, but instead crickets and a blank suburb greeted me.
The looming roofs of familiar shapes, never knowing what's within, never knowing their contents
I took a few steps outside, the humid air now pressed against me. Warm and dreary, but oddly refreshing.
Ensconced in sensation, trapped and yet free, a moth to a lightless Sun
I took a few steps more, gravel now sung to me beneath my boots. "Hello?" I called out aimlessly.
Does a vagrant wander without a home, or can the modern Pharaoh claim vagrancy still?
It felt surreal, a knock without reason. But I was sure I heard it. I placed my hands on my hips and turned around a few times wondering if they simply slipped by.
Numbers crest into waves, waves become an endless sea, they drown the modern Pharaoh, and the ocean makes his tomb
After several drawn out moments, I finally retreated back inside. The door closing made the sensation of conditioned air more apparent. I shivered.
What to make of this life, electricity bouncing and bounding against flesh, leathers keeping in the secret of death
It wasn't until several hours dripped by, another sleepless night, that I realized my peripheral had caught my visitor.
Harried, there is no respite for a storm, lightning crashes through cloud, rains become rhythm
Playing back the memory like a tape, I see it clearly; a silhouette in that abyssal space of night. Watching, observing. I felt neither malice nor curiosity.
Bubbling turmoil makes the mind rigid, in the rigidity the plasticity is destroyed, and in the ruins lay the young
Dread seeped into my bones, I saw its eyes. Orbs of ambiguity, I could not bear them staring down through me.
Woe to the thinker, disquieted mind, wretched endeavors against granite and slag
Was it the knocker? It was quite a distance, I had answered the door quickly. I was sure I did. Well, not sure enough exactly.
Abandon concern, abandon lament, sing a song of pursuit and watch the buzzards circle
No, I truly didn't have enough of a memory to be conclusive.
What is the dead to the worms and to the rain?
I went to bed at last, and upon waking I had no memory of that night.
What is a worm to a god?
And my life continued as it ever did.
O lost soul, pitiable rot, iron rusts before your winds
Or at least any change is not something I witnessed again.
Open up your visceral portal, show thine spirit
For the best, if I saw it again my memory would reawaken.
Show me your beating heart, show me essence
And I would remember those eyes again.
A thousand doors slam shut in unison
I would remember those eyes again.
YOU ARE READING
Lines
RandomA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
