I don’t know what to title this piece of writing.
It feels like a suicide note, but there’s no way it could possibly be such a thing.
But I do hate the demon.
Maybe it’s a homicide note.
DEMON must die.
Doesn’t make sense.
It’s inside me.
It is me.
I made it.
So what do I do?
There’s a certain pain to it.
Like a sickness.
Sometimes nastier than most.
So, how then?
What do I do, then?
the sky is still blue
the sky is still and blue
the sun only hints at being a part of this like we are a part of this
in this middle of it all
where this field and the makeshift pavement meet like an indecision
bits of one strata dissolving into another
the normally tall golden stalks of grass
erect and proud, now weighed down
with the seriousness of the night before
the cool and damp
the incremental impact
the slight change in the atmosphere
as if from positive to negative
and back again
we join hands
one of us shivers
the difference is imperceptible
neither of us speak
as we step in unison
the sky is lighter though not bright
the birds have taken notice and the edges of the field start to come alive
the grasses, their heads full of seeds, crane slightly as the defining forces stoically imply their will
almost with each step there are changes taking place
where our feet meet the ground
where the wet of the grass, on careful occasion, meets with our flesh in dewey transference
a diamond exchange
an offer glistening
pausing, glistening, dropping to the ground
up the hill
around the corner
in amongst the cattle that come into focus as the day makes its way
there is less blue now
the balance is tipping
the winds are rising ever so slightly
the mist gives way to a clarity upon which we both remark
it feels good
the individual parts, as we make our way along a ridgeline trail, integrate
root, rot, branch, the slight trickle of a spring bubbling up out the earth’s surface
one grip tightens, the other responds
eyes meet, hearts skip a beat
down the hill we go
that’s when we scatter the ashes
and pull on the purse strings
in cinching it a little tighter
finished with a simple granny knot
things run their course, they always do
(just let it happen)
but there’s never any way to predict the outcome
it can only be coached along, coaxed along
molded when malleable and hardened when necessary
(let it happen)
the problem, or whatever it is
didn’t just happen, did it
the foundation of it was laid ages ago, wasn’t it
it just silts up after a while until
something must break
walls, will, and the will of man
all bunched up like a tense fist
you could cut it with a knife
but it probably wouldn’t help
it builds, though –
it builds until it’s palpable
taking on a certain dimension
a weight unto itself
it builds until it spills
and it’s like the cascade can’t stop
and we all give in and watch it crumble
or better yet, watch it burn
from opposite directions each line meets, then intersects the other
the tiny checked pattern of the mantle glistening
red-flecked on white in a sea of blue swirling down its length
softly, almost imperceptibly, the kern emits a subtle hiss in adjustment
and around again, now skyward, arching in perfect symmetry towards the others each
from opposite directions, again, each line meets, then intersects the other
the patterns challenge each other in passing and on through the loops
and to end with a quick squeak, the final tightening, wound and rewound