THE PARTING OF SIMON ..chapter one ..







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
                                   
 Shapes of nothing

Exhaling life
inhaling the staleness of death

 Fear held tight within the canvases of our faces

 We own nothing
 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.


Pain is not of flesh but of soul.


He swallows nothing but the turns of his wasted life.





The fight to regain a nothing that never was and always will be ends

in defeat of bitterness.
                                



The final tearing complete he falls to his end.


Holding nothing of his past.



 Bringing nothing.           
 Being nothing.

Falling to nowhere.


As nothing.



...... more to follow ..

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