Melancholy of An Architect
He is an architect of soundscapes.
Senseless with passion he stands
before a pending deluge.
Rapt is he to the resounding
din within the halls of his skull. At night,
the architect will dream of faces
they smile and laugh—they cry and sigh,
and he must reconcile with the knowledge
that he is responsible for their being,
as incomplete as they may be. They chant
his name at the brimming of the storm—he
hears their voices as whispers. There is a
grind which pulses perpetually through
as he hears the endless ringing, through rime
and reason. As chaos descends upon
him, he peels back his flesh to better feel
the salt from the ocean. Waves engulf him.
Although he is afraid, he submits to the
tempest. Underneath the water’s surface
are endless observations for his eye.
Swirling shades of chaos glimmer above
as he shouts profound profanities to
heaven. As the storm recedes, the water
will dismiss the architect from suffering.
He then must dredge the bodies—blue-faced and
bloated—to the dry banks of his stream of
consciousness—where autopsies may yield some
connotation, but never certainty.
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