River of Flame & Tears (2/3/17)

  • I burn
    in torpor,
    a puddle of goo;
    I do not do.
    The river pursues,
    churning, burning,

    efficacy melting
    amidst the bubble and spew
    of sulfurous fumes.

    Self-pity consumes,
    an acrid acid bath,
    sliding down the jutting crags,
    premature crevices,
    deepening the rifts
    and valleys with age.

    These tears do not cleanse.
    Redemption never came.
    This open gash cannot be stitched.
    The fix is imagined, a sweet childhood
    yarn to be spun at bright-eyed innocents.

    What remains
    horridly real?
    The scalding pain,
    the debilitating fear.
    Cancer, its terrible
    appetite never sated,
    The crush of thoughts unabated,
    comes at night and I am undone.

    To know

    is to be alone.

    The Orphic head bobs along
    the river, comical and obscene,
    nodding grimly,
    as if to say, "I agree, I agree."

    I slide further into the muck
    of naysayers, pig-
    skinned villagers.
    The lead makes them laugh,
    the toxins so entwined
    with frail genetics.

    They hoot and holler,
    heavy with drink,
    relieved to be at another's funeral.

    Malach Hamavet waits.

    Like a dove's wings, my prayers,
    gossamer papers,

    with the blood
    of my most ardent desires,
    float upward into the black night sky,
    as I continue to burn in my soul's fire.