Wednesday, 23 September 2009

do you call it dead.

Staring at the edge of a precipice, only a terrace with plants in pots, and the finite sky beyond, staring and staring until the prophecy becomes an unmentionable poem, and an unthinkable thought....why must we always think that which should not must not be thought?

I hate poetry, you shout to the finite sky, a mute agonized shriek, and who can prophesy that which cannot happen? Or that cannot be spoken? Then you sigh and the gathering clouds make the finitude more emphatic and unbearable.

Then a flash of lightning ends it all. Against the stark heavy sky a lonely tree stands charred. A mere silhouette, an aesthetic oddity, a lost dream. You turn your eyes away as they were always meant to be turned away. Your heart skips a beat and then returns to normal. Away in the horizon it rains in torrents. But you can only feel it in the distance, it may never come at all.

You turn away as you were always meant to. Away from the terrace and the sooty sad figure and the heavy greyness. Into the room you walk alone. Warm with artificial lighting and with wooden countenance you survey the mahogany and teak. They called it comfortable.

Do you call it dead?


Anonymous said...

"Your heart skips a beat and then returns to normal." Normal is a very dicey word. It may return to normal but normal is not the same as comfortable.

In the world of finite skies, things are rarely dead. Ghosts from the past are there at every corner. One just needs to bump into them.

Thank goodness for the artificial lightning. The blinding lights make things bearable. Hides the ghosts.

Baudolino said...

Isn't despair, my dearest delight, the sickness unto death? Before we call anything dead, let us teach ourselves not to despair.

Madhuri said...

Yup, they unfurled the finite sky,
so you would walk away and die
its the shadow of the souls lying on the couch
slowly dying inside

Loved it!