Solace

Solace

 

In reclusion there is solace.

 

Its is a home for the wanderers in a soul so shrunken from the worldly tightenings on the chest; civil disfunction bounds through the asphalt green, fiendish lust carries on the sidewalks wet with the tears of prior evenings and honorable woes, let those in exhile not be judged.

 

I have walked through the valley of shadow, the meadows of low lying evils; I have cast my body to the dogs, my mind to the sick and disgusting mad, even breathed halted breaths of cerualean tar that twisted into the rib cages of wealthy cowards. I fear the night; the shadows thrown from God's feet like a hell of fire and ice, a bounty of malice where the wild things roam.

 

I fear the darkness:

 

the streams of whiskey that course from frightened tongues

the lonesome tom cats, day drunk with a powered strut, crashing from the

molten tin of the fire escape and falling into the crowd of devils and horrors.

 

I fear the moonlight:

 

where the deluge of tears shines through the windows agape

where the ruins of an early spring fly farther through the midnight on the

weapons of young kings and the bosom of

a hungry goddess.

 

When the nighttime rolls, I'll be there to catch it, to capture it in the misted silver of a wide mouthed jar of rum, hopelessly praying for morning to rise once more and shun the hundred shadows that linger at my doorstep.

 

When morning comes I will be the one to run home once more and watch the night from the window of a jar, the one to gaze through merciless tears in a room with closed curtains and cold wood floors.