Wednesday, 21 March 2012
The gray streets stretch on for eternity, winding inexorably through the wastelands I have left behind. Oblivious to the changing of the seasons.
The only thing to mark them out, is the temperature with which they are felt.
In this cold soulless place, where not a tree, not a blade of grass can eek its weary way through the planetary weight of concrete and dust, I feel myself sink into the hard unforgiving murder of it all. To mix my blood with the mortar, in this living factory of bricks, the death of romance sticks, stinking up this slag heap of forgotten hopes and desolate dreams. It is the valley of death I have wandered into, and it is built of concrete and steel.
When God imagined Hell, and brought that place into existence, it was not some fiery realm of torment, it was here, in this succubus of a void, this bitter little pill upon the planet of hope, filled with mean little shadows of people, pretending to be all that they have murdered. Concretized oblivion, the mendacity of the meek and small, stoutly built up brick by brick, mile upon mile of these bloody walls. No greenery, no flowers grace these fallen places, only the echoes of winds that whip the hardened edges, the sharp and sinewy vestiges of forlorn hope. Lashed and manacled sorrows, scream down the black-lit pits of emptiness, voids where once vibrant hearts leapt, filled now with only the crumbling detritus of ghoulish melancholia. The final gift of this fake abyss. Where are the trees? Where are the trees!? Cut and burnt to paint the stones.
Not even the stars shine in this mausoleum of the dead, replaced with dim and sallow shrouds, the mark of the poxed. Beware, because they are dead, they will demand your death too, and when they have caught you in their unholy web, they will file your murder under compliance, and mark your demise as a vote of confidence.
So hide, from out their sick searching eyes, let not the trickster weave his spell, nor tempt you from your hiding place deep in the lush sanctuary of your nook or dell, for only hell awaits those who forsake themselves, to purchase the gates, the seeds of lies, sown within the fertile grounds of your hearts, to capture each sparkling memory, every vanquished dream at the start. So hide, Hide!... lest you too become concretized, and see the forests of your imagination burnt upon the alter of this gargantuan deforestation.
© Richard Michael Parker 2012
Posted by RMP at 02:22