Culturalism · Uncategorized

The Ward

I pass through your doors, and smell forever death. Not the rotting corpse, but its vivid anticipation. Fear.  Those bashful eyes, peeping above a mask blue to white, sensing weighted antimony. How long? Who is imbued with knowledge? A few beings hope, swaddled in great white jackets, speaking as if sure, while we wait clueless.  

Sudden. The denizen catches this  glance, dazzling more terror. Myself the cause I disbelieve. Something else must speak. Could empathy well within? Aye, yet never still the twin fashion. That poor soul 72, frail to the saunter. I cannot know his fear, walking as I do on water. When the invisible beings sneer I laugh, he alone quavers. He alone prays.

Ring, answer, answering.  How many cry after chance, for guarantee? Too late, none remain. Try with new sun. Alas, but can they afford to? I fall back to tempt myself. Give the slot, let them enjoy. Swift it perishes. How more will I earn depleted units? There are others who fear, others with currency. They craft mint paper bonds, strongest of manacles. Dismiss the moral shriek.

Finally, she beckons. Sit, clothespin finger, wrap your arm, feel it close to burst. Enough. Spears in the nostril. The vision floods. Wait now, a printed vein of trees. Sainted in truth. The white robe says be well. Past three masking shields, almost genuine. He says sorry for waiting, but I feel sorry for him.

Clear. An open passage shines. Depart high feeling, thoughts to know freedom. Two steps more. Disaster. I see his stare anew. Older, worn, tragic. Burdens for that soul to live, I carry the pain-thing forever. Brushes never rest.