When I stare out my bedroom window
in the haze of insomnia

I expect a smooth and ever
twinkling oblivion,

as if Jackson Pollock had
painted with light upon the sky.

But I am met with a dusty dissipation.
Sulfurous synthetic light.

Part of my heart wonders if
darkness still exists.

If somewhere on this glowing Earth
exists a dome of black speckled with

twinkling corpses of long dead
stars and a band of translucent

milky space matter. I hope when my eyes
close for the final time, we are reunited,

as the dark wraps its cold
and glittering arms around me 

like a mother holding her
long lost child. 

Today I saw a fly.
A poor little housefly
writhing in utter agony
on my kitchen counter. 

Blended into the black stone,
knock off onyx,
invisible but for an incessant
and futile buzzing. 

I stood there and
watched it struggle.
Its enormous eyes crying
tiny housefly tears. 

I felt like a farmhand
preparing to put down a
prized steed, simply because it
had outlived its usefulness. 

A solemn little creature
screaming into a void
deprived of hope
deprived of dignity. 

I whispered a prayer while
crushing it under my bare
thumb. I could have sworn that
as it left for heaven, it whispered back.

Inside my withered and
brittle bones, there stands
a man. 

A lonely man atop a hill,
watching quietly as the
world ends.

Fire turns the twilight sky
a deep shade of ashy crimson.
Oceans drown monuments of
stone and steel.

The sounds of death and decay,
flooding the man’s ears.
The sights of tragedy and torment
burning his retinas.

Across his face, his
lips curl into a
peaceful smile.

He knows that very soon,
all will finally be
quiet. 

It will be so quiet, and
the silence will be so beautiful.

Turning a key
half way,
counter-clockwise.

A slow revolution
of rusty hinges,
screaming me a warning
upon thoughtless ears.

Slow and silent steps
along a cold hardwood floor,
as snow skitters inside.

The wooden chair on the floor,
the rope hanging from the ceiling.

And the tape rewinds.

I drift out with the winds
and meander up the dusted walkway.

I turn the key,
clockwise.

Peering inside I see the chair,
upright by the kitchen table.

In it I sit,
drinking my morning coffee.

Outside a cold and foggy window
the rain is pouring upside down.
On the wall sits the shadow of a willow,
like you sliding on your nightgown.
The floor creaks under bare feet,
and fire has become cinders.
Sweat has soaked through the sheet
with dreams  of a former winter.
My heart is full of holes
patched with poorly applied plaster.
My mind is full of lost souls
that can’t remember the sound of laughter.
 
I hope when I reach heaven’s gate
God will forgive me for showing up late.