~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XVII:~

WordWulf By WordWulf, 8th Mar 2011 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Letters

~as the prisoner blinks in the sun~Morrison~oh you strange fellow~thus spoke Zarathustra~Nietzsche~ if I started murdering people there'd be none of you left~Manson~ride boldly~ride~the shade replied~if you seek for Eldorado~Poe~

~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XVII:~

~The Not So Simple~

There is no distance like this. The confines of my room will surely devour the hours, endless miles, corner to corner. A cross exists, it stands heavy, symbolic, its wavelengths of spirit gospel and the wandering minstrel.

The widow is an interesting study, whose husband is absent by dying and ever-present by the same token, a glass urn on the bedstead resting, no tender witness, new lovers, floundering and flopping in his shadow, whose living renders them moot and second at best.

The woman’s silence is a shriek and howl, a reminder to avoid intimacy, the withering crack in the wall, its starting point, origin, vulnerability. Unable to answer questions unasked, our dreams, larger than both of us, become nightmares and the death of love.

I find myself slain in her heart, a look of relief upon my dead face to find myself removed from the near-dead. A skull and crossbones in her eyes, she consults the black book in her hands, religious icons, oracle of the cross, worships dead prophets, one of which I am not.

This woman consumes her children, prostrates herself before them, destroys their self respect by demanding none for herself, she cannot understand their penchant for self destruction. She finds consolation in strangers, joins them in indiscriminate circles where they all pretend to love her.

There is a pound-stone upon my breast equal in volume to all my sorrows. I am chanting to remove it, “Free me at last,” and the moon, come to own me, advises, “Remove all sham pretense of love. It is weak and poisons your heart.” A great breath consumes me. I am shattered.

A new wind whispers through me. I am growing larger in my smallness, learning to drift until I am simply away, no longer afraid of the voices, the dead wing of mother, poison of wife. Darkness, a surround of midnight conversation, support me through the not so simple.

~KEO/Legend of New Horse~
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~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XVI~

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author avatar Rathnashikamani
9th Mar 2011 (#)

Not so simple,
simple but superb!

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