The Wait Is Endless, The Weight Tremendous

The gate was left open with malicious intent.
Your fate was not chosen, but a business assent.
Lead and be followed by the hollow adherent.
Open and swallow to be coherent,
Or choke on the bottle and pretend that you demand it.
Reckless abandonment, for your life is but an instant,
Yet we're hung up on the news and the views it elicits.
Dazed and confused, crazed then induced.
Sedate the abstruse like slaves in the noose.
A door to door census bearing questions that are senseless,
Yielding well-constructed answers with no ounce of sentiment.
The air we ingest grows thin from embellishment.
We'll charge by the breath to cover the deficit.
We're building buildings on buildings with rooms made for elephants,
And sending the billing to tombs of unfortunates.
Desolate inhabitants of arrogant gentlemen
Healing the world for extravagant elements.
Marble and granite are granted to skeletons,
Succumbing the manic with middling medicine.
The slate was made broken. You wiped it clean just for profit.
The gate was left open, and we refuse to close it.
You can blame it on the government or Jesus of Nazareth,
But at the end of the day it's your reflection where the mirror sits.
There's no emergency entrance, only a mandatory exit.
Walk, do not run is the bane of our existence.

- afm

Slaughterhouse 6

So it goes.

. . .

There was no one. No one was around him. Nothing at all, for that matter. The other prisoners swiftly dispersed throughout the streets. Billy did an about-face, and once more for good measure. Only the inhabitants of the mines remained. He was alone, but he was free – and so was the wagon, abandoned no longer.

There were no reigns in the wagon. No grain or water for the horses. An empty coffin. Fitting, since they were still attached to their bridles, clearly left for dead. Billy did not think twice on the matter. Whether their previous owners were abandoned in desperation or currently floating in the post-war debris, their loss was now his gain. 
So it goes.

Billy found some rope they were using as equipment to hoist up the corpses at the mines. He tied a fisherman’s knot around the hitch conjoining it with two bowlines, placing each one securely around the horses. Still, far from a carriage. A coffin on wheels. Death's chariot. Freedom was not certain, unless one finds sovereignty in death. It was time to find solace. It was time to find life. With a quick flick of the wrist they were off.

. . .

No grain. No water. The horses collapsed in a matter of minutes. Billy was so set on reaching a destination, he forgot the nothingness that encompassed him outstretched for miles and miles. The bombings defeated the Germans just as they defeated his chances of survival. The horses lied dead by their ropes, Billy was at the end of his.
So it goes…

The Alex Show - Episode 67

You brought magic into my life,
But it was all a disappearing act.

The Alex Show - Episode 66

It was January when I first saw her. She was walking without a purpose - an incremental hangover from the previous years. Out with the old, and in with the nothing is new. Eyes sullen, hidden below the hair she purposefully refused to push back behind her ears. Someone used to do that for her. Used to. Now just the thought of the motion was reason enough to hide behind it. Shoulders heavy, tired from the weight she figuratively carried, waiting for the day she could stop defending the emblematic as problematic. You cannot see the wind, but you can feel it, and enough of it can destroy you. Providing proof was never proof enough. It only made her appear more defensive... eager… guilty. 

Spine curved, or at least that's what happened when she no longer acted as if she had one. She shuffled by, her feet brushing against the pavement mimicking the sound of the bottomless pile of papers she once rummaged through at her desk, each sheet a reflection of one day in her so-called life: seemingly infinite, covered in constructive nonsense, specifically different, yet all the same. Days like DNA of fraternal twins. Days like numbers on a calendar. Days like stats when you're losing the game. The familiarity of that shuffling sound made her cringe. A shiver crept up her spine - or where it once was - tearing limbs. Oh good, she thought, at least I can still feel. 

There was beauty in her sadness. Or perhaps it was not her sadness that defined it, but rather beauty so truly undeniable that nothing could fully conceal it. She possessed an undeniable beauty the same way the sun rises still, gloriously spilling over the mountains covering the earth with its radiance, regardless of how persistent the darkness lingered from the night before. Sadly, it is all a cycle. An ugly one at that once reversed, for the days are bright and undeniably beautiful, but the sun always sets, and the night always rises.

I stopped and paused and gazed back in her direction, my eyes and heart following suit. I could feel the wind seep into my lungs as my lips dispersed, filling me with the oxygen we all so desperately need. But nothing came out. Just more wind. You cannot see the wind, but you can feel it, and enough of it can destroy you. 

Who am I to break the cycle?

It was January when I last saw her.

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN

I hate sixes. Sixty-six is my least favorite number. Fitting.

- afm

Time and the Ocean

You were like time and the ocean.
I could hold but a fraction of you in my hands,
And whether I kept them steady or clenched my fists,
You always slipped through.