(A lone voice whispers)
Remembering every single incredible memory of my old lover's name before the sun rises around the clock. I think is driving me slowly insane as the night sky seems to smile as it closes in.
Each delicate syllable and dulcet tone rings and sends out such a resounding cacophony and vibration of such a Trinity of Sin.
Like a holy golden summoning bell been slowly rung. Emanating a frequency filled with Happiness, Togetherness and Divinity.
Tainted by visions lost in the throes of bedroom depravity as it spins around in that sacred kaleidoscope within my mind.
Memories of smiles and kindness. Lying together, talking for hours, lost in a mysterious stillness.
About life.
The universe and all things in between.
Holding hands in the darkness.
Before all the cruel and unkind things in life came crashing in like Zeus's thunder and put out our beloved flame, which we foolishly thought would be lit forever.
So now I'm on this broken path that I'm doomed to walk to purge my soul of this madness.
Trying to forget her since her soul left us. Old Henry and me.
The best old hound dog to sit with while writing poetry.
So Ma and Pa, I'm taking Old Henry and leaving this letter. Driving South. Heading somewhere I'm pulled blindly to.
A lonely secret location after my own version of The Titanomachy.
Towards a place deep in the Appalachian Mountains. I've seen in prophetic visions.
A spot inside the darkest of unvisited woods, a place I know from Dreamland.
A place known as The Land of the Black Crows in the deepest of Shadows.
Where Old Gods of pagan mythology and weary Elementals gather to watch unknown actors dressed in sharkskin.
Perform a twisted version of Dantes's Divine Comedy accompanied by a lone violin.
A path known only to other poor kindred souls when they're unconsciously invited by a strange magnetic pull. To The Land of the Black Crows in the deepest of Shadows.
To watch strange sideshows to help dissolve their pain after being spiritually wounded by one of Eros's many bows. Until nothing remains.
Before they, too, pull on the Eternal Sharkskin suit and take centre stage as all the other broken, stand from their seats and welcome Old Henry and me.
Into their secret house of ill repute. A place where, when painful emotions suddenly appear, they are shared and passed around to be consumed like a strange-tasting forbidden fruit.
By new friends who use its energies to welcome new followers who are brave enough to take up the call like us and commute.
(C) Copyright John Duffy
Image shared under fair usage policy.
No comments:
Post a Comment