‘What a peculiar fascination,’ one would say.
Yet, looking at it with morning eyes,
I would have it no other way!
Each and everyone, designed to suffer.
And, once gone,
only pillared stories remain.
Tales of wanting to rule our world.
In proper, pauper, place, every name, one in the same.
The convicts that have come to maintain.
They too, have no name.
As I stroll the rails, to an obliged gate.
There is a sense to where laughter, remorse and bad tidings…
could have begun.
Almost an inkling is given, to stare, directly into the sun.
Thus a retort, my constant fascination, lies in the work…
Still needing to be done.
Cordial and unlucky.
Awaiting with causality toward yesterday.
Upholding many hours past midnight.
An ill lit embankment to instill a traveler’s fright.
No one is born unto a shift by the graveyard.
Poetically speaking, the role of walking dead no more different from…
portraying a fly at the bar.
A limp for the narrow figures that wander far.
The appearance of black opiates dance like sugar cane in a diluted mind.
Visions of unassuming white vans seem to be…just waiting on a friend.
In the ominous role of third shift…the rules can bend.
Metallic taste absolves in the mouth and soul.
Fear is lessened.
A lack of care for the person…not quite whole.
No mention made of ‘being young or growing old.’
In the midst of thunderous gale.
A noose is loosened.
Dislodged from a ceiling.
Where the lead is chipping and peeling.
Stones, previously marked with similar name.
A pastime of clientele hanging on shame.
The obliged have always wondered.
Can you cremate pain?
Thus, hold onto dignified days,
and their remains.
A participant of curiosity’s oddity.
I, too, have queried…
What remains of the day?
All the protocol that stands in the way.
Here, below my feet, number 99 given unto tablets…taglines…
All centuries old, a woman I will never know.
Scathing and cold, just another disruptive, disposable being.
Several untold stories …below ground level…
Pinned and confined to society’s example of evil.
So often we are nothing but a number.
So often stoned due to our history.
So often victims of our own mystery.
Would any of you here…think of me…a Lazarus?
A modern day drifter…
Part disillusioned rolling stone…
Part bombastic fugitive…set apart…desperately alone.
Insane is a stone with no name.
Asylum…just a label…a house for someone else’s shame.
Abigail…I have named you.
The number 99 seems so isolated…
Just stopping by…
wanted to let you know…
you’ve been on my mind.
Just wanted you to know…
there are more of your kind.