The Atmosphere of Shearing Metal

Everything becomes atmospheric in its nature: the black rock holding open a door to a room with no entry. Redemption comes with a price, but it is not for sale here. Kind gestures mastering no weight, and music being played idly through a cracked window. Without your bright signs, or the screams of the unlucky who await within, there would be no patrons of your dead hostel. But we come for the screams and we come for the signs, and we come for the music we can almost hear. We are almost soothed and almost relinquish our personal peace for the greater apathy to reign. I am here with you darling, but you cannot even feel my touch. So gentle in nature, so tenacious in your attempts to learn. So blanketed with dream trees and angelic harps that sound only in your ears. This is my gallery to display the despair we call art. Lack of emotion and childless mothers abound. Come in, he says, Come in. And on and on they stream. With no tears for the dead, the brothers that we left by the side of the road. Too gentle in their tenacity. No ability to further progress in this procession of the damned, observed by careful observers from behind the glass. Cracked and broken and without a place to conceal their eyes. I am trembling in this wake, but I grasp your hand and we march on. To great nothingness, to empty years of needing some way to be free. Clanking glasses and shearing metal break my mind and bring me back to you. Where are you? And how are you going to take me away from here? Here, where dream trees’ boughs bend and snap beneath the snow-covering. We are burying the infants who have passed from this world to the next, we are smothering their little mouths and tearing out their eyes. We must suppress the screams of the innocent, lest we believe we have a place with them. Follow their stoic departure and wish with our minds’ whispers that there was somewhere we too could go.