Friday, February 4, 2011
Sitting on the rocks of the bay. At the point just before the ocean stained boulders meet the shore. I'm sitting here wondering if I've ever seen your face before. The tide, dead calm, is awakened by the intrusion of a tourist barge. Then left calm again after they've gone, but never to reach once more it's peaceful peak. I feel a presence, overwhelmed in attack, attempting to move me from my earthbound throne of granite. It can only cause a weak shift in my movement. Enough to have me turn and look, yet return to my sinful stare. Looking into and holding tight your sinful hair. Something keeps the tide alive as others attempt at breaking its untimely spirit. Left without hope the tourists return to their lifeless mope. This is the story of those who've settled but still long to grope at that image of peace they inevitably break and disrupt. Just when they've entered, it's over and just as they leave, it returns... like a crowd scatters as danger approaches, her peace runs away from their hairlines and broaches. I am left standing watching you there. Ever so changing as you look into the light's glare. I am left standing waiting for your return from the destruction. The disruption of all they've put on you and try leaving in their wake. You will not move me from my granite throne. You will not leave me here all alone. They will quiver and shake in the power of your wake.
Posted by Matthew Marchant at 4:07 PM
I'm not leaving no matter how loud your screams of hate may get. I'm not leaving and going out into this world of black eyes staring blankly at my misfortune. At my failed attempt at a dream. I see the way they soften their mouths at my sadness. I see you wanting to make me whole again... As you wish I'd find a friend. You want me to run to that? Your hate tastes sweeter. Your hate has feeling. Their sympathy at my pathetic gait has no life. It has no weight. I'm not running away from my destruction or the forgotten me. I'm running into my self like a cannon meeting the target. Like a child's smile of hope for approval. Like the salty taste of dirt a tear leaves in your mouth... I can taste my disgrace. I have faced this dirty demon and his evil face. I can be what I am and you can leave running for the sun. You run away? You be alone with your hate if you must! Don't leave that burden on me for my soul is much too weak to adjust. I'm only particles of dust left to settle. Softly and slowly falling into place.
Posted by Matthew Marchant at 3:12 PM