Insomnia

I cannot save you
While the blood rages and the heart moans
I cannot save you
As you look askance at the twisted vines
I cannot save you
Your gaze is too suspicious, your mind is too old

Let go
Of all those moments of rank belittilement
Let go
The gnashing thunder within your veins
Let go
Those tears of madness you are still hiding

You know
They clamor ever hungry for reprisal
You know
Your violent flame is roaring for more
You know
This is the reason why sleep flees

And yet
The pounding surf cannot be silent
And yet
That vortex of hate will not be still
And yet
Your eyes will always spit blood and flame

And that, is why
I cannot save you
Unless you save yourself
And dream

© M_Moonsong

Writer’s Block

It has not gone unnoticed that lately, I have begun to be guilty of a certain deadening of the spirit. A kind of fallibile vicissitude if you will. An unwillingness of the frontal lobe to procreate any kind of interesting thoughts or even contemplate any sort of personal advancement.

Un-started articles lie adrift on my desk, notes and bones of ideas strewn about and abandoned as though by a non-caring hurricane. Too old and weary to even attempt anything. Even more pieces of paper lie scattered in my personal drawer. Remnants of an introduction to something, always pending, never completed.

An air of impotent absurdism permeates my mind. Semi-glazed eyes pitter pattering, trying to stay awake, hour after hour. Day after day.

Not even Trevor, or as we used to call him ‘Kermit’, the warty bent frog, with his shiny polished trolley full of small tidily parcelled goodies, can evoke the remnants of a smile now. Smoke twirls, glints and tinkles as it follows him around. A trail of cheroot-induced puffs coloring the blankly torpid symphony of the wall.

I try to lift the pen and I can’t.

I try to switch on my brain and I can’t.

I try to articulate something. Anything. And I can’t.

I have been on death-row for three years, two months and eight days, but this is the day when I have truly died.