The Dead

There isn’t much to say about the dead.
There has never been.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

They have ceased their lonely tread.
They have made their sin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

They had watched the listless breaking of the bread.
They had seen the wine swirl and spin.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

They had entered a pool of sin and dread.
They had curdled to thick, rigid tin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

There had been the thinning, tearing of the thread,
of lines that none could underpin.
They had fallen in their dusty bed.

Sunken eyes on a shriveled head;
the touch of unction on the skin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

Into nothingness they were led.
They followed the lying, crying grin.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

Now – there isn’t much to be said.
There is nowhere to start, begin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

~ she stood there among the dandelion ~

She stood there. And stepped forth grazing the tall brittle grass with her toes, changing the dew as she went. The clear droplets sliding down her legs as she stepped, her whole body moist from the mist of the cold summer morning. The cold, frosting the pain inside of her, made her a new person – able to leave, to forget – to lie down on the grass-covered earth that welcomed her with its primal embrace. She could melt in the grass and seep through the cracks of the earth. She was now her own soul and mind and everything she could claim. Her life now floated in a mist of warm silence balanced with all things. A vision she could only grasp for when alive in the midst of chaos.

Tears came to her. Falling from her face to the cold ground that invited, she could feel the salt scorch her skin. A sickness overcame her, and her eyes vitrified. She fell from a tower into a dungeon of throng. Dark mutilated faces viciously laughing at her, strange coarse hands grabbing for her body, pushing her into every direction, muscular bare legs kicking her with full force. She was bruised to death without a mark.

A soft light fell onto the ground.

The stillness lay in front of her, laid out and extended on the surface of the sea. Moving with the delicate motion of mist and inching towards her it softly touched her on her side and swayed her body with the motion of the tide. Her mind was being sucked into a vacuum of nothingness. It absorbed her thoughts and swallowed her emotions leaving only a shell behind. Her aphasic face and placid eyes were not fighting the whiteness that was now polishing her soul. She didn’t fight before, when blackness engraved her soul with deep and painful marks, she stood still.

It had been creeping towards her unnoticed inch by inch. She could not see it or feel how it neared her. But now, the stillness arrived indubitably; finally, quietly. It made her feel at ease. A soft snow-like coldness spread through her toes, bare on the ground. It hardened the tips of her black hair and lifted into the air. She was preparing to leave this world, intending never to return to such pain. She closed her eyes continuously before it happened. When it did, her eyes remained open. For the first time they saw past the horizon of lies and deception, the mountains of anger, distress, the hills of worthless ambitions, the knolls of grey sins.

The black and the white had been pouring and mixing within her, and now she broke free while a minute brush of wind lifted seeds of dandelion and carried them away.