Saturday, December 30, 2006

The Last Days in the Castle


This red sand castle stands at waters licking; echoing halls of hollow stoned ethic and quickset theology.
Its profile silhouette studded crosses and crescents and creed-cored credentials; flags that flutter in empty promise; the days of tomorrow shot through with red white and blue and power for the few.
Here he set up his stall of translucent effigies for no one to worship; sharpened the knives on what was left of the grindstone of wonder; his lack of belief fell from the imperfect mould handed down by his mother on a day of dark horror at the path that she chose through the maze so delicately structured to obscure the cog wheels and machines and magicians dark sleeves.
In the warm light of slumber, between the teeth of the night and the swallowing morning, he sucked down the sharp taste of every wrong turn, every sidelong glance at the faces that loiter behind the blinds of the past.
And smiled as he swallowed; a grey smile for all those tomorrows unbeaten and lined up domino-spotted and leopard skin vague in the halls of the red castle with its unexplored and hopefully furnished rooms for the future’s bright children as yet undamaged by the actions of fools.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

those bright children have all the possibilities to explore at will if only we can all be gone before they arrive. Welcome back, you were missed.