Painting - Digital Oils
Copyright 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
If you drive straight down South Pine Creek
and continue without stopping at the short,
coarse-sanded beach at the end
of the paved roadway
you'll find yourself swallowed
in the cold salt water of the Sound.
The murky waves will close over you
like the harsh petals of some desert flower
and you'll be food for the few fish remaining.
I've thought about it often
but somehow always make that turn
and find myself once again
in the first house on the left:
back upstairs in the undormered cell
panelled in pine, its two small windows
unadorned with anything
but shades so old and cracked
they shield you only imperfectly from the world.
I throw myself onto the mattress on the floor -
so ancient it is merely stuffed with batting
and once rested hard on steel springs
that doubtless squealed a raucous chorus
during lustful congress -
and I am once again fifteen,
although the Sirens of the rock
and the admonishment to go placidly
amid the noise and haste
no longer hang on wooden walls.
It is my refuge from reality.
It is the hairshirt I put on
replacing that which I wear most days.
It caresses not quite so brutally
the skin rubbed raw
from where I live most of the time.
In this room - when I have exhausted myself
in the company of fantasy and nonsense
interspersed with admonitions to buy
this or that new miracle that will perfect you -
I lie, not bothering to draw those shades
that leak the light.
I mark the passing of the darkness
swallowing my sobs,
unable to give voice to the inkyblue despair
haunting my hours vertical.
And after two or three of these nocturnals
I am once again returned
to my Cimmerian purgatory of isolation,
there to ponder which is worse:
the incursions of a world gone mad,
with its feckless, trifling voices shrilling endlessly,
or the Sisyphean burden
of gathering, repeatedly, the sanity remaining
and fashioning it into something worth living for.
~ copyright 2013 RC deWinter
May 20th, 2013
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