Of DEAD and Dying Wood
There is a place…
(It is a place, a beautiful place, in a beautiful garden, in a beautiful field, in a beautiful world)
—Beautiful, in a sense, until you look at it, and then it's an ugly, filthy, dead, decaying world—
—(and you can see the flesh rotting away and the maggots chewing their way through dead girls and dead boys and dead everything and DEAD…)—
—(the look on their faces the look on her face and maybe the world needs a revolution because by god there is a spreading darkness)—
—(and what? you're pledging this revolution, it's you, all you…?)—
—And sometimes you think that's why it IS a beautiful world.
…where ivy grows up the walls, and where light slowly slants down through the roof, making shadow dancers and puppets, and in the small bits of lights the place gets now and then, the darkness that's so thick falls away and all the small nooks and crannies and bugs and rotten wood is exposed to the world.
It is an escape, for all those wishing an escape from the world (but, of course, they must wish to escape from the world, really mean it. Think it for thousands of days, weeks, months, years, time is meaningless for the timeless, anyway) where they can go if all else fails.
And, in that moment they know--
they are alone.
—Alone, alone, alone—
And sometimes, in the darkness
in the summer
rain, falling, drenching your
(for a moment)