The Touch of Eternal Winter in POETRY

Blood-stained and saturated… I lie awake; immortal betwixt ethereal and authentic reverie.

Here… there… then… now… of what is there left to contemplate? In being, laze suffering. A heart is a salvage yard, a life a mission. Failure, indefinite; is a promise no human can keep. And so… everything we work for is nothing.

Coated with black ice this plane of residual life is an ungenial migraine. I see myself each day emerging from the crust of an abandoned wasteland. The air is stale, the colors ashen, the winds whip ferociously in all directions so that I have no bearing and no ability to choose a path in which to saunter. Down is up and up is down, dust blinds me and my voice carries no echo. I have no footing… scraping along the sides and surface of my mind… pounded into inevitable submission.

The thoughts never cease
The scars never heal
The pain never subsides
The end never arrives.

Do I carry on? Do I live in the memories of the departed? Is there Heaven behind this Hell? Where lays my salvation? Who has the key to my veins? Who can unlock this confusion? This corporeal waste of a mystical gift? Who can set free my soul? Release my life force from its doomed flesh and bone incarceration?

If only you could hear the wails all day and into the night. The sounds your soul makes when it’s dying.

I close my ears to its engrossing resonance. I close my eyes, collapse my body, open my heart, hug my knees and rock… and rock… and rock… because the only place I can go… is within.

And so… I long for the touch of eternal winter.

By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2009