A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and darkened by the growing night.
Upon it sits a man, his legs and mind yearning for the ground below. He is a good man.
His mind overthrown by rage, his cause forgotten by the rest of them, his paltry family and buried friends.
A stranger approaches from the dark to cross the stone structure, he is old and unafraid, for the hour was late.
"It is dangerous to be seated up there, do you plan to fall?"
"What have you done?"
"Yes, what have done that is so wrong that you must fall?"
Nothing, I have done nothing.
The hour is late, my mind destructive, I am alone and have succumbed to hatred.
"Hate. Is it not close to love?"
I do not know.
"Then allow me to tell you."
I will not, for you do not know me.
"Have you said your farewells?"
Farewells are not needed, why must you talk? I wish to be alone.
"I talk to you because you are here. It would be strange for me not to play the enquirer. Have you loved? Have you lived? Have you felt all emotion?"
Questions are not needed. Be on your way.
"As you wish."
The old man walks into the freshly grown darkness, until he is gone from sight, his footsteps sound no more. His questions now ever present.
A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and illuminated by the growing morning.
Three. Two. One. Screams of excitement, with a little bit of death in each roar. Disturbing the serenity of the big blue sky, piercing the atmosphere through a rebellious dive. I let gravity take control, putting my delicate life in her hands.
Swarm of suicidal thoughts each time he springs from the aircraft’s door. Floating in the air. Embracing the silence around him. Feeling his racing heart beats break through his rib-cage. The rush and thrill of dying always makes him contemplate the value of life. Up there, there is no worry. Up there, there is bliss. A disapproving wife, not having locked eyes in years. Merciless children, all that remains are the photos on the living room desk. A receptionist job, growing insane from the accumulation of those counterfeited smiles. Up there, there is no worry. Up there, there is perfection. Approaching the ground, inner demons yell ‘do not pull that parachute cord!’ Rashly weighing the options in hand. What is the point in returning to a disgusting routine called life? The skin on his forehead quickly folds, his eyes are tightly shut. No reason for a man not to take his own life the way he pleases. A beeping noise from his wrist awakens him each time; at 2,500 feet the cord is cowardly pulled. With regret and pain, he reenters his home. Another promise broken, another promise made.
Freefalling into the sky, I finally understand. The ironic beauty of being, the verge of death.
My cigarette was nearly out,
and I exhaled smoke that whispered
death in my ears. I had an itch.
It called my hand toward my forearm,
and I let a finger run across it’s inside.
I could see the blood flow out of his flesh,
tears soaked his skin,
and it rained in my mind.
I miss him so much, my brother of rage.
He was a whirlwind, a torrent of a man
that blew across this world like a storm.
Now the only lightning he can offer are
strikes of memories of people that loved him,
I am one of them.
When people saw that burly viking like creature,
they gaped in fearful judgment.
I pity them, he was a book with a heavy cover,
with pages of loyalty and adventure inside.
A true friend,
it burns to think of the afflictions he kept
within that made such a strong soul give in.
I take one more breath of smoke,
and throw the butt of that fading fire
toward the sky and let it die.
” I miss you.”
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.
For The Fire
My life as a piece of driftwood.
Passing through rivers and streams
swimming into the ocean of hopes
Until a saving hand introduced a warmth
I was dried and soaked under the sun
I almost forgot the days and night
of my aimless run.
Like a dead I too had gone
to the depths of my imagined grave
but the turn of tides brought me ashore
I always ask the heavens that I might reach it.
I was hanged,
I was heated,
I was consumed,
I slowly cried.
To be a part of something I had never been
to be a part of a whole
under a Master's Scheme.
Just to be a part of you and perish.
Appearing from nowhere, a red stain in my colourless
vision, I found them cold in the whiteness of the first
snowfall. They lay there in the misty haze, stunned to silence,
smothered in their white blanket; that splendid state
beyond shivering. All the swans are dead, their bodies
melt, reclaimed by the snow. I watch myself in their vacant eyes,
staring out at me, as if I’m some kind of god- the sun’s
sparkle has faded; black mirrors, an onyx iris. With wings
contorted, they lay limp, their broken necks hanging like empty white bags,
their once-upon-a-time white feathers twitching in the wind, the veins
on their sagging skins unwrapped, all speckled with flashes
of ruby, brighter than fire, and just as untameable. This
scalded mess looks at me; the ends molt through, peeping like scared
children, and crawl along my frozen skin; it’s almost
pleading, the red ocean growing and overflowing, staining
the pinking dirt. They are all equal here, entwined in strands that slither
like embracing fingers, numb to the bone from the biting frost; iced
to perfection, inseparable chunks. From high above in the black sky, he saw
it all, creaming with knowledge- watching through his terrible spyhole,
that ghostly hue that bones this new aurora’s gleam with sallow blemishes.
This scene infects me; I circle the remains in awe and continue; this sight’s
colouring me green: it is over; they are finished, laying in the soiled snow.
There's no through road so
with iced courage and steeled breath
She opens each scarlet line,
watching each blank page wave in the wind.
She renounces, orphaning it through self sacrifice and,
through Her crimson puddles,
She sees the barren paths- untrodden-
retreat as the oven scolds the cake inside.
It leeches, and Her skin, the colour of sour milk,
is creaming, each foam washing away the marked gold sand.
It's too late, the clock's already struck and chimed
for the still unborn - stillborn unborn.
Enclosing, the bud swallows the bee,
it's shallow heart fading,
like the bleaching sun drying the caterpillar.
She collapses, clasping, dragging Her burden with Her
The day was almost over the length of shadows added to the horror the suicided
failure as eye kicked the step away from the very air eye breathed only to discover
that the rope that eye had lengthened only added more to links already there until
my feet quite reached the floor and the suicide was haltered when the noose
quite simply hit the floor. Yes eye commited suicide yet now eye am still quite
alive and living in my love. Eye have uncovered the secret of the screen the
gamma rays are there in the background when they are lessoned the blue turns
dark there is a control eye found marked cool. The computer hurts my lidded
brow much less now. Blackstone's characterization of property rights as "sole
and despotic dominion which one man claims and exercises over the external
things of the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other individual in the
universe," the exercise of this fabel is now exercised for ewe she owns the
Natural hemp rope, hand-twisted in Romania into 50 foot bundles of various
diameters. Made from dry-spun hemp yarns, this rope is traditional hemp rope
unchanged and in continuous use for centuries. Naturally mold and mildew
resistant, this rope is suited for outdoor as well as indoor use. A classic product
with a truly rustic and natural look. You'll get years of use for out of this hemp
rope regardless of the application.
Look at this last line gentile reader a glitch most certainly or just a mistranslation
it must be why the eye is still alive and the rope just did not hang me. The Law of
Blackstone is now the one of Livingstone eye presume.