Exit Script, Act IV Scene V.
A cigarette grows in full-bloom in vectors glazed with grey. The air in the smoke-filled room begs the eyes to look away. I cannot see anything, I cannot perceive what lies in front of me. I collected my thoughts on a champagne glass, and swilled them, willed them to break. To crack and reveal more truths, to reproduce in the sexual ascension of the repercussions of mingling. They never love but bear children, they wage wars but never die.
Of the unchartered territory that is the void, I see containment. I see life in the ashes that remain, of what only remains, of what is the pinnacle of everything ever undertaken. If we don’t burn, we take root; feeds consumed by what we thought of as much weaker creatures that never prowl like us, or make haste like us, but waiting, ever patiently waiting, for that is what they do.
With elementary eyes I can see that I gave myself lesions. Everyone is perfect, everything is pristine; it is the hands of time whose touch are draining and damaging. And the longer we stay, the longer we break, except or thoughts, which will remain with the ashes, if not found on the ground below then in the libraries of forbidden words.
I seek to write a song, or a poem, that purely describes what I see take shape. But it is what it merely is. We have no power to change, we have no choices but follow the ancient laws. That we must be born, that we must die, that we must fall should we try to fly. I tend to forget these rules, mind you, whether through neglect or carelessness, but in purpose only to try to brighten the gloom; realizing there are stacking consequences to pretension.
If I come unprepared for the morrow, then I’ll let the smoke embrace me, and I will never be forgotten. Not completely. I will always be there, haunting the night and consorting with the moon, until the flowery flame of the sun graces my grave.
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