Sunday, November 6

After the light fades

I am Death.

I am Light.

I am the Famine that pushes the wolf on, to run through the dead of night.

I am the mind-dimming Cravings of my addiction as five-minutes after my sternest resolutions, I indulge in my vice yet again.

I am the Weakness of the lost in the snow, the moment in which they yield to what is.

I am the Surgeon of providence that heals the wounded from battle only to seethe with disappointment as I watch the patient march, healed once more in to battle, oblivion and to never be seen again. I made him well enough to fight – no I made him well enough to die.

I am the corner of the cave where the Light does not shine.

I am the Roar of insect’s forest in the afternoon sun.

I am the Warrior that lies in wait of ambush, the pulsing of fury that floods me as my blade swings t’ward his startled mane; the victory call as the vanquished drops in a spray of life, a pattern for the ground.

I am the Curse you fear after things don't go your way; the blessing now vanquished.

I am my Control, my focus when cocooned in nirvana, the moment behind strength beckons and I conquer the vulgar beast with a wince.

I am it all.

I am Death and I love it with a wince.

I am Light and I love it with a snarl.

And it amazes me – that you think you can hide from me-

I awaken; I am fodder again. Someone is here! I hear burning bush, in the darkness; screams, an orange light pervading the slashes of black trees that hem the bright blur of a raging fire. Not again.


-And somewhere in the back of me, my dream, of peace echoes confusion, a dream of sweet aaahhhh nothingness, anoxia; a cavern of white nothingness, painted black, painted white again. Where was I when they sealed it off? Do they know I’m in here? Left alone. The fire. Billows.


I jolt, recollected – to the west to Passenby. Who are these foes?  It is dark and I run into trees, their branches and twigs scratching and jarring me, my tenderness of sleep long gone to the recess; muted hanging like a bat in a cave whilst my panic spews from the same darkness. I hear a guttaral rage from the din behind me; thudding and the occasional shriek. Who are they after?


Me. Was that my name? Did they call my name? I haven’t heard it in so long I am no longer sure.


They know me – I should go back. Who is it? A white cave – water dripping from the ceiling.


They must know me. It is me they want.  What do they want?


What is your name? Park? You don’t use one. Park. You are nothing, nameless; these days anyway.


The fire rages only meters away through the trees. Why is there a fire? Who would light a fire, that village had nothing worth taking.


Me? Oh but I am nothing. I am hidden in a cave soaked in water – why would they ever want to kill me.

I walk, slowly to the fire; through the maze of trees now glowing orange, bristling with black patches, a rain of gold singing in the air, falling. The smoke whistles them away, up, with a wind, an updraft and I walk on through the celestial tower of ash and embers.

Where are they? Calls? Where are they? Park? Parker? That is me.
Walking back to the settlement there is naught but the leaning wooden frames of house, flames dancing along the black causeways like an army marching into the city. There are no people, anyway.
Sitting on a soft lumpy log on the edge of the forest, in the light of the fire all is peaceful again; 

“even destruction and violence holds peace at one point or another. In either a peace explodes unstoppable.”

I stay and see an animal foraging in the tree line, its eyes catching the orange light – “here piggy piggy piggy.” It looks at me solemnly and charges back into the forest.  “Piggy…” and like bile bubbling through the duodenum laughter screams from me sharp and pristine in the night amongst the death. Oh there is death?


I look down into the eyes of a human being – one of those human beings – it is staring at me and my infinity – no starring up past me into the geometric frenzy of stars that push in on the earth for half of the day. The eyes stay lifeless and I realize my stool is no fallen log – as comfortable as it may seem. “Here piggy piggy…”


This is a bad thing – somewhere as I move about the being for a more comfortable position, I know it is a bad thing. What do I do with this being, her – it’s a her – what do I do with her – with her eyes.  I burn her? I’m not to sit upon her as a stool? No. I put her in the fire!

Aye! No!

Dig  and with that I flip the body over and start kicking the ground – oh this will never do – never do. I grab a stick and chuff away at the earth, scouring a dent in the ground the length of its body – I flip her back and push the leaves and loose dirt back over her. Standing back I survey the village again, the flames rage in some spots, quiver in others and then I see for the first time they are not giant larvae I see deposited about the village green in wait for there time flight – they are humans. More of them – far more than I have dirt for their burial. Oh oh oh. A scratch on the mane is as unhelpful as ever.

A seat. I need one. I need a time of thought.
This mound of fresh dirt here with the hand pushing through the foliage.

I sit. Survey. What do I remember? I am unsure – I recall a -  fire. Oh there it is there – those house. Before that – and my mind wanders through galaxies searching for purpose – a recollection. Something other than the white walls of home. Hmmm. Voices. 

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