Spook
December 8th, 2011, 12:05 PM
I follow the pale figure that rides along the edge of the world. I follow the breath which is breathed into the atmosphere from the pale porcelain lips. I can't see your soul for your eyes are closed but your form is transparent. I can see your heart, pumping blood through your veins; and I wonder if you can see me. Am I but a shadow, stirring the air; but am I invisible to the naked eye? I once saw a small ant stuck between two plates of glass. I looked in at him, knowing I could crush him if I put pressure on the glass. So I did. You are crushing me slowly between my feild of glass- but you cannot see me. I could see him, but I did it upon will. Is it so much different if it is unconcious?
I can see right through you as if I have a state of mind to see words within the crevices of your brain. Look upon white paper and you see a sketch in invisible ink but not yet drawn. How can you be drawn if I cannot see your soul- your face is hidden from my view and I edge along the glass- the one way glass- so that you cannot see me but I can see you. I ponder why I can see you, but I cannot see your face. Why do you hide- are you concious, child? But still you walk carefully, and my cries echo through the soundproof forcefeild- no scream heard. Have you ever been underwater- almost as if you were drowning- lungs burning for air- then you heard soft voices like a gentle rain along the surface of the water? That is what had brought you back to the surface to see your brothers and sisters diving- and you thought what death would be like? To see their faces as they see you facedown.
But now as I stare through the glass at you I shed a tear because I wish I knew. I believed it would be quiet- no pain. Nothing. I believed I would lay in cold dirt- and have no afterlife. Would it be different if I was upon white fluffy clouds? I emerge from the water so I am no longer deaf, and I am carried among the hands of ones who are still living. Whose blood still pumps through their veins- who's words still have the soft tinge of sympathy I will never have. I am cold and hard just like death. My soft flesh has aged by my anger for life. Of life, shall I say. Is it life I was mad at, or the fact of living itself? Was it just me, or was life a curse everyone withstanded. Was I the first to let go? I will always wonder though, I suppose. Maybe one day you'll be with me. Is it different, perhaps. When your bones are weak and you cannot chew your own food, will you join me then? Or shall you rest upon a cloud and pour the rain. Well, all is the same. I see that you will join me, and you walk ever on. I still follow through the muted glass- in that fact I cannot change eternity- for you have changed it yourself.
My time had come and gone, but I am still here just like we never believed. Am I in your heart, truly? No, I am within the glass surrounding your soul, but still of yet you cannot see me. Maybe by some miracle, or a crevice broken from the mute of universe I reside. But you turn, and I see the face of death. But it is not your face at all. I do not see the rosy cheeks or the brown eyes that once greeted us. I do not follow you anymore, because as it turns out you are not you. I do not know you anymore, hath the devil taken your soul. Do you burn? Or does your haunting body follow me along glass, wishing for a change to eternity along your watch, as to hope for the fluffy clouds of heaven to greet you? Well, I told you, dear child. Your soul does not exist. You are gone, and you must not be remembered. I disappeared like anyone else, anyone else who cannot be spoken of. I am a nameless fragment that once left a mark on the world, but a mark which was repaired and never spoken of. If they found out...if they knew...do they fear? No, they cannot see me, cannot hear me. At old age, we die peaceful by the hands of god. But where do we go if we die at the hands of oneself?
In loving memory of Sanders Marshall, who is watching us from one-sided glass. We cannot see you, but you left your mark.
I can see right through you as if I have a state of mind to see words within the crevices of your brain. Look upon white paper and you see a sketch in invisible ink but not yet drawn. How can you be drawn if I cannot see your soul- your face is hidden from my view and I edge along the glass- the one way glass- so that you cannot see me but I can see you. I ponder why I can see you, but I cannot see your face. Why do you hide- are you concious, child? But still you walk carefully, and my cries echo through the soundproof forcefeild- no scream heard. Have you ever been underwater- almost as if you were drowning- lungs burning for air- then you heard soft voices like a gentle rain along the surface of the water? That is what had brought you back to the surface to see your brothers and sisters diving- and you thought what death would be like? To see their faces as they see you facedown.
But now as I stare through the glass at you I shed a tear because I wish I knew. I believed it would be quiet- no pain. Nothing. I believed I would lay in cold dirt- and have no afterlife. Would it be different if I was upon white fluffy clouds? I emerge from the water so I am no longer deaf, and I am carried among the hands of ones who are still living. Whose blood still pumps through their veins- who's words still have the soft tinge of sympathy I will never have. I am cold and hard just like death. My soft flesh has aged by my anger for life. Of life, shall I say. Is it life I was mad at, or the fact of living itself? Was it just me, or was life a curse everyone withstanded. Was I the first to let go? I will always wonder though, I suppose. Maybe one day you'll be with me. Is it different, perhaps. When your bones are weak and you cannot chew your own food, will you join me then? Or shall you rest upon a cloud and pour the rain. Well, all is the same. I see that you will join me, and you walk ever on. I still follow through the muted glass- in that fact I cannot change eternity- for you have changed it yourself.
My time had come and gone, but I am still here just like we never believed. Am I in your heart, truly? No, I am within the glass surrounding your soul, but still of yet you cannot see me. Maybe by some miracle, or a crevice broken from the mute of universe I reside. But you turn, and I see the face of death. But it is not your face at all. I do not see the rosy cheeks or the brown eyes that once greeted us. I do not follow you anymore, because as it turns out you are not you. I do not know you anymore, hath the devil taken your soul. Do you burn? Or does your haunting body follow me along glass, wishing for a change to eternity along your watch, as to hope for the fluffy clouds of heaven to greet you? Well, I told you, dear child. Your soul does not exist. You are gone, and you must not be remembered. I disappeared like anyone else, anyone else who cannot be spoken of. I am a nameless fragment that once left a mark on the world, but a mark which was repaired and never spoken of. If they found out...if they knew...do they fear? No, they cannot see me, cannot hear me. At old age, we die peaceful by the hands of god. But where do we go if we die at the hands of oneself?
In loving memory of Sanders Marshall, who is watching us from one-sided glass. We cannot see you, but you left your mark.