Indecision
Spattering her horizon with smears of internal malachite
she bleeds herself in spurts through a netherworld of emotion.
She’s nearing the edge of a rationality
that continues to sink under her weight. She
wavers, undulating like the web of mist that encompasses her.
She can’t decide yet whether she is relieved or
utterly ravaged
by the comprehension that this descent has
at last become truly inevitable.
Was escape ever really an option?
She rubs her eyes to rid them of the green film
that continues to revise her vision, giving an ominous quality
to the shadows that congeal and imbibe the potency of what
she thought were her most secret apprehensions –
we always tend to find ourselves out -
bedecked in every layer of recreancy and hue of rancid passion -
in the raw luminosity of the moment of truth when we least want to be revealed;
-when all we really desire is obscurity.
as she passes them, her corners collect every
misconstrued malignancy
her hazed perception is full to bursting.
She may be drowning -she can’t feel her own breathing.
She’s wrapped so very tightly in her own flesh, in the betrothal
of the earth and the unwieldy cloak of sky that smothers
her every attempt to touch the stars, in the hoard of humanity –
tidal asperity that continually crushes her, fracturing her very sanity
and re-fragmenting the residual splinters of her essence.
She breaks into a run, drawing skin with patchwork seams
around the chapped and brittle heart it contains.
-blood trickles down her fingers, staining livid runes
onto the parchment tinged with rust where
the treacherous streams of red
evaded her attempts to confine disintegration –
It’s here –the boundary –
she gapes into the ceaseless transcendence
of cobalt flame that confronts her,
caressing her haunted eyes with flare upon flare of
somber electricity.
The unknown –the potentially fatal –draws her relentlessly,
she takes another step, reflection unnecessary
before the merciless enticement of her
doom.
–or rebirth–
Her lips drip a pungent taste of salt through her senses
as she contemplates and rejects the impulse to turn
for a last glance over the shoulder of her antecedental existence.
If she looks away, she will forfeit her own redemption.
So she screams to the capacity of desperation
and surges into the fire, limbs posed for flight.
This is her definition of finality:
this is her predestined sepulcher;
or else the incineration that paves the way to renewal –
where she will rise like a phoenix from the embers of her soul,
scarlet plumage accentuated by the sapphire blaze
of her second womb.
