The end of the world seeps in through the cracks enveloping silent reality in the cold dark no apocalyptic fires or shivering earth not inundation or raging storm the end of the world consists of little things that break and roil ‘gainst the shores of existence of loneliness and sorrow wrought of fallen dream of lost nights in shallow grave mind heart-rent lyric from a forgotten chorus the end of the world rolls in like mist on an autumn morning rising in crepuscular air, strange forms in writhing phantasm permeating flesh and bone and soul an intimate conclusion for each outcast heartbeat words fall to desuetude in malicious coda the end of the world is glass shattered mirrors on unswept floors of barren beings susurration cessation of the stillness coming one million reflected lights from a single eye suffocated in chilling breath and ragged word the end of the world drips stalactites relentless in twilight caverns to cuspated points slow evisceration of old-held belief, hewing entropy in frozen-frame images from a lost silver screen eroded acetate of abandonment dreams
My faculty for language is returning and my post-stroke cognitive abilities seem to be in full recovery. I realise this is a rather bleak piece, but there you have it
At the hospital they demand a contact for emergencies or next of kin once I named you, in days gone by but there is nobody they asked how I arrived I could not drive I told them of the rideshare and they wouldn’t treat me until I gave them a person so I invented one with a false name and an unused area code an imaginary friend or lover a wisp of smoke in my mind a vacant lot in an empty city an acceptance of abandonment
This is what happened when I had to go to the hospital following my stroke last weekend. In my state it was more than frustrating.
I paint in acrylic and hæmoglobin a temporary solution to a permanent problem a false count of days or weeks or months or years a reckoning of numbered moments representing naught but passing memory and this will flake and fade like recollections of other days or better nights bittersweet colours etiolated over time My hands will not form the shapes I wish no more than dreams come true or fly on wings formed of leaden skin or feather and wax