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I Am Santo

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Awake. Moonlight assaults and cold, so cold and shaking. Maybe from the air. Maybe from the sin of still caring. Carried there to here on the creaking stretcher of consciousness and delivered, sweating, breathing fast into now; horrific now, the creeping, inky unfathomable space of drowning above the surface. Hands pull, never tearing, but crushing pressure still, too firm on taut skin left slick with the passage of waking, and oh, this damnable dark is so much more forgiving than the day left behind, the quarrel and fresh loss like rain in a gutter sneaking away from Heaven without revitalizing, a tricky but of gray to swarm over eyes tensed and staring forward, out of here and away. Such calamitous lies and web spun, designs to catch new, fresh nourishment for a soul dying not even on a vine but vineless, fruit rotting and punctured thin and white, ghost white, and repellent like these thoughts, these cruel memories requiring exorcism, like fresh sun jabbing into unready eyes, piercing irises in bloom. Details abound, sick metaphors swimming like sharks in blood stained waters, jaws shattering the spine of hope with mercilessly sharp reminders of the powerful and powerless; a simile spider wrapping fresh sentences in gossamer and preying that this will be the last meal. The death. Pure silence and the kindness of final rest when hammers of indifference echo outside the coffin, among trees bathed in the moon’s tears and the startled find old dreams suffocating, buried, finished. Resign and let the end have its wretched way with each aching chamber of a collapsed core left beatless and petrified. Mercy lies in acceptance of final breath, the haunting a fear of what’s next and nothing more. Let the dark settle. The light only blinds.

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