Flailing Against The Now

“Those who do not move, do not notice their chains.” – Rosa Luxemburg
“She was like a drowning person, flailing, reaching for anything that might save her. Her life was an urgent, desperate struggle to justify her life.” – Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated
create-your-0wn-world
See my desire from afar she calls,

Forever here beside me

Stepping from today I fall


Looking for a Savior to sell

A direction for hope

A breaking of the windy spell


Left with a remnant of a dream

Tossing in my days

Hope in my eyes a gleam


Age you defy my advancing plans

Feeling the limits of days

Ripples of my passing stands


A harried cloak of now pulled close

shutting gaps of chance

This my importunities chose
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End Of Night – Not all is good at the end of night

“Sometimes you wake up from a dream. Sometimes you wake up in a dream. And sometimes, every once in a while, you wake up in someone else’s dream. ”
Richelle Mead,
Succubus Blues
 
Darkattic

Again the Succubus calls, answered by my willing compliance. At the end of night, leading her further down the cluttered path, I grab her by the hand and take the fake offerings, momentary escapes void of relief. Grabbing her, my Savior, “Please speak kind to me, sooth my ache and dark thirst.” There are no companions in this empty pursuit, I barely make it out alive, who will follow me in my destruction? Holding the works of addiction, I set up a fix that never satisfies, only to do it again and again before the end of night. Many will lead me there, then abandon my desperate body to its agonies of thought. There are no tomorrows in this never land, dreams are abandoned on the altar of deprecation. The birds sing, announcing their joy of the morning. Their spectators that look on, mocking the death of ambition and hope, increasing my dread that comes at the end of night.  Shake yourself my drugged soul, find your escape and run from the pain that finds you; a great price is paid in the dressings of celebrations that go on until the end of night. Caught again by the arrows of habit, striking me with precision through the errant presumption of safe chambers that open in the end of night. With no deliverance, shackles bind tighter with each twitch of resistance. To relieve myself of these panicked flights, I seek sleep, now stolen, hidden from my ever reaching mind; yet, I fight, until the end of night.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine
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