The Thread of Life

The sounds are pouring in my window and the panes tremble to let in the burgeoning cacophony of bulky laughter, prickly clanks of dishes spilling out of deft hands, ruffled woofs of bourgeois dreams with white canes for engines and a broken pride for a dog, voices trying to make something of themselves and random phones playing even more random music. And the room swells with the blood of hours rendered dead by the saber of continuity. The clock ticks defiantly on the wall and I have an urge to punch the minutes into the canvas; stains from the puncture of the arteries of the minute hand to remind God that I still have a beating heart and it’s about time he listened to it.
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The lights are bleeding through my window; the colors fresco-ed on the murals that are the shadows of a distant battle cry for the sun rolls around the sapphire of the sky another 365 times as existence laughs maniacally at the puerile celebration of a war that hasn’t even started. And the mirth of all this charade trickles into my eyes which try to see past the curtain to the wailing widows clutching the photographs of their beloved, martyrs to the tyranny of an insolent permanence. Their tears crumpled into jewels, the poets paint as their badges, gleam like a lighthouse trying to get the lost, wayfaring souls to the shore.
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And I shut my eyes and my ears in hope that the invisible light and the silent sound will carry through to the receptacle where the marionettes of the thousand faces I’m supposed to be, kneel in front of their shadows begging them to not leave them alone. The altar of the crippled God gathers from the dirty rubble into a smoke of debris shaping into an idol whose limbs are fixed in a foxtrot brim-full with its cadence of sighs. The music stops being itself and the easel bleeds its colors onto the floor where the knees quiver in the cold stare of an indifferent life. And, the sleep slowly comes.

                                                                                                  End