- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
- Tags: autumn, creativewriting, death, fiction, flashfiction, igwriters, literature, loss, microfiction, poem, poetic, poetry, poetrycommunity, poetsofinstagram, rose, shortstory, storiesofinstagram, story, sunflare, verse, worry, writer, writersofig, writersofinstagram, writing
No. Not here and not ever will those hands shake as they are, as if Hell breathed an updraft and the coward heart bloomed with rage and fire, shrieking limbs and tearing the mind into everywhere but home, where the beggar unfurls truth and fantasy, hope and ecstasy and the blessed receive baptism under a sky adorned with love, that limitless openness that stretches so far out, beyond, like starlight lost somewhere in an unseen past, still not arrived but coming, silently careening through the vacuum and demanding eyes wait for it’s everlasting shine. Waiting for such beauty in the storm of wretched cataclysm that those garish hurts purvey, those polished blades so cleanly cleaving the thumping, blind care trapped in the hollow cage of ribs and sinew, it’s all chaos and sick whimsy; the sideways fuck of murdered willingness seen with large, beautiful eyes unable to focus, to fix. Each burning thought, a sin against promise, a parade of arrogant, inestimable danger that chews through reason like wildfire does the arid tinder of tomorrow, dried under the crawling chill of autumn. Parched, the soil cracks, crumbed, and the longing by stem and petal for Heaven is choked by the noise and fear of that blood-bone freeze winter thrusting like torment at what should be and can’t. It doesn’t matter. Shook, broken, wordless, refuse strewn over dead ground by wind so whipped by fury that the magnificence of day fails against that lost star somewhere abandoned by an eye that couldn’t believe any longer. Will surrendered, disdain erupts, clouds every corner of dreaming, then falls like ash, death snow blanketing once fertile ground where fleetingly the rose of ardor astounded the sleeping into waking. Haunted now, fragile footprints mark their path away from here, a single gust strong enough to prove that faith never lived here at all.
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(at Nevermore)