The Parting of Simon is based on my Grandfather. He spent three years in France during World War One. Much of that time in the trenches. He returned home on a Thursday and was back at work as a banker the following Tuesday.
He was a changed man.
Through imagery and words I try and envision that disjointed world.
The Parting of Simon
Blind
fold
The crushing pressure of his eyelids
push inward as if a blindfold were
pulled too tight.
Muscles knot across his forehead
tightening his skin to its breaking
point.
Flashes of lightning
break across the darkness of his
eyes.
His sockets fill with an imagined blood.
His mind draws into its self
then explodes outward
with a deafening pulse.
He holds fast,
Bracing himself
against another wave of hate.
He claws at himself from with in.
Digging to get out.
Gnawing to hurt.
Destroying himself
With himself.
The constant chewing of the hate
creates a sound echoing
in the hollowness of his soul.
The claws dig at the back of his
eyes
tearing the flesh away exposing the
core.
His sockets become empty.
Filling the void with nothing
but hate.
A hate that will stay
and form the lens that he will
forever see himself through.
Walking through
Lenses
fog
With droplets of our souls
Moving through the solid wasted air
Exhaling life
inhaling the staleness of death
Fear held tight within the canvases of our faces
Contain less
Hope is not ours
Taken from us at the start
Never to be returned
Not even in our deaths
Membrane
Pushing through the membrane of the
last of his life he pulls at its still holding threads.
Snapping cutting opening his soul.
His life is but done for this last
moment still holding him to his earth.
His reality of death.
The raw course of the roof of his
mouth holds his only mortal feel.
His death runs deep finding life in places unknown.
He swallows nothing but the turns of his wasted life.
Bringing nothing.
Being nothing.
Falling to nowhere.
As nothing.
...... more to follow ..
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