Find Me Sitting

"In the dead of night, I find my mind garnishes my soul." Old. (July 2010)

A flick of cold, yet not bitterly so, soothes me.

Here I recline, tensely, wondering up and down about what it means to be myself -- to be, essentially.

That quiver of air is one unfelt for too long. Its presence is neither short or bittersweet; this time, it leaves a feeling of bliss with every wisp, a touching caress as my joints ache.

I feel pain.

In a calculated flex of each creaking tendon, twists and slides of sharpened feeling ripple in harmony, teasing every nerve flirtatiously. I lapse into euphoria -- strange, an ethereal orgasm in a split moment. Split, into tens of thousands of residual memories.

That flex, executed in a logical manner, causes a heartbreak of emotion to flood from every pore. That one moment of self-indulgence comes to climax with a residual crack. Bliss, a whirling ghost mist in my lungs, through the chest cavity, engulfing the entirety.

That sweet, dreaming waft of cold collapses upon me again. Senses begin to wane, to a state of regularity, akin to draining creativity from each vein as drops of laborous blood cement themselves to the page.

This is what they call coming down from a high. I feel it, the waste in my bones.

The echo through hollow seas, pooling and churning above thin air as gravity becomes but a distant memory, a mockery.

What lies within a soul is sacred. No God can bring it forth, no deity, no prophet.

What lies within is truth.

A soul such as mine, as bitterly tender, yearns in wilful distaste for a breath of that cold.

Anger cannot seep in, nor jealousy, nor hate. This eggshell armor is selective, cunning. Embryonic truth sealed inside; love, its forbidden fruit. This it seeks, obtains, and releases.

Butterflies, it's called, this release of the soul.

Through licking lips comes the pang of blood. Realisation, of tender thought and loss.

Reviews

[JimmyFlux]

Reflective and poignant. Contains a poetic awareness. I can relate to the essence of this piece.