At Last

The rankest of breath I draw at last, consciousness brings me back to the pain
that the imagination has lost. As it stales in this brackish lung, I despise its
support. Given only the strength to stop this birth given repetition, I would find the
heavens mocking my impatience. To my dismay, breath upon unwanted breath I
am forced to consume. Why the mind continues when the will has stopped.
These placid pale fragments of skin have collectively abandoned strength and
stature. As the grey soul of my existence dangles frivolously by a thin shred of
sinew I am reminded of loves labor lost to desired unfulfilled. Oh if this were
another dream I could put down and neglect. Passing would bring much pleasure
but unsuspectingly life’s last tormenting laugh has shattered presumed dignity,
left to peers of unmotivated candor, blotting discharge. If ever afflicted, now it
taps gently at my understanding. Their gazes beat down with anticipation. If I
could only pacify their wishes with etched stone as my headboard, earthen
blanket, wood has better use than to a corpse. Deceiving sun brings life to that
which it destroys. I wilt in this arid and barren shell, petals fail to replenish. What
holds this stem in place, why won’t this grasp become unclenched? Bitter activity
drives my patience less. Abandoned despair creeps slowly across rocks of
tolerance. Beneath universal contempt lies a battered canvas too abstract for
interpretation. Clarity reveals itself in writhing agony. Choice stripped from my
side, maybe if I fought for life it might be over. Shimmering key that winds the
mantle clock, arrogant instrument. Forgetfulness allows the gears to wind down,
loosen the springs, rusty organs should cease. Disease decays quickly but time
has no compassion. She was fortunate with a violent death, sudden, keeps
dignity intact. How a sharp blow would create placidity. As her tangled body
adorned the ravine, no anguish, instant satisfaction. Wrapped in wreckage the
heavens were kind. Must I have offended thee so? Let this play end, last act and
let the curtain fall and excuse this audience. Critics have left determined to
critique this benign performance. They grow weary as my lids hope to bat no
more. Unshakeable chill, hollow bones lend no warmth. Filled with thinning
blood, skin collapses to compensate. Invalid creature these sheets support, now
I demand release. Shall I scream to shake your grip? If only I could, how I would
curse your incompetence. To fail in life, accepted, to fail in death, contemptuous.

Laboriously recalling pleasures lends no comfort. Alone, surrounded by
onlookers with last rites to read. It seems I have none.
Copyright ~ Antony Valoppi ~ 2011


One thought on “At Last

  1. Pingback: Inspired By Nature

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