The Mute

I tried

he said

as he held

his head

in his hands

with his face

to the sun

eyes closed

breath forlorn

and the world just spun round

and it did not care

and it did not cry

and we all know why

I can't

he said

as he hung his head

with the shame and sorrow

that seeped and bled

from within his pores

and out of his eyes

that he tried to hide

with a bleeding smile

But the world did not care

and the world did not cry

and we all know why

We believed the lie

Please don't

he strained

as he pushed

in the rain

against the onrush of dispair

as the hail soaked his hair

while the cool running streams

of his dead and dying dreams

pour in rivulets down his back

pour like oil upon the sand

and the world did not care

and the world did not cry

because we all know why

there is strength in a lie

In slumber we lie

In slumber we lie

he cried as he died

while he pushed all away

and would no more touch

the scars on the sand

beneath the old rugged cross

and broke the iron rings

and broke the coiled bones

and reached for the stones

deep inside of his mind

where they bleached by his tongue

were coated red with blood

and he traced on their round face

the lost longing embrace

that he would never again see

and that he lost when found he

the last place on the earth

where the world did cry

and where the world did care

because he saw in his hand

the pen that wrote the lie.

African Epic

Around the Great Kraal none could make a stand, as the deft archers of King LeDongo took out all who came near. The glittering bronze flew through the air, the smoke-blackened iron arrowheads were soon to find their marks. Deep within the middle ring, where the lords of the armies stood in council, wise-eyed Shimaza looked at the gathering and scattered the truth-bones once more, and read their horrible omen the fates had chosen. That soon the mighty ring of the Kraal would fall and all would be scattered. And yet he did still keep hope. For as long as the palladium of the mighty Nkosi stood at the great kern, none would be able to break the wall, and so he might yet still divine a solution to break the barrackade. But as wise as the wise-eyed son of Magabe was, he did not see the shadow of Tokolosi creep through the cool stone halls in the middle ring. Then the Lord Tokolosi, having found the chamber of where slept Nemanga of the Fairhair, he took the shape of Nemanga’s sister, Nedamaba, and spoke to the sleeping warrior in his dreams saying, “Nemanga, my brother and son of my mother, you sleep while the armies advance on the stones of the Great Kraal. But even now, there is salvation to be had. Signal to the watchers on the Moutains of the Dragon’s Back, where your brother, your father’s son, Lethemoso is captain of the watch. Signal to him that even the Great Inner Ring of Painted Stone, Holy to Nkosi, will fall to the armies of the Serpent, if the Hidden City of Sheloza will not send aid.” Waking, Nemanga went to his mother and told her the dream. She wept bitter tears as she reminded her son that no pidgeons sent would be successful, as all were shot down by the smoke-blackened arrows of the armies of the serpent. “But, there is a way, son of my youth, that you may still reach your brother, your father’s son, at the outpost on the Moutains of the Dragon’s Back. We must burn a mighty fire, the greatest in the entire city, the entire land, so that the smoke will climb like the growing vine of the gord, climb until it has reached the doors of the wide heaven where Nkosi dwells with the Star-walkers. Maybe he will intervene on our behalf if our sacrifice to him is sweet. But even if Nkosi has made his heart hard towards us, the smoke will be terrible, an omen for your brother, Lethemoso, your father’s son, so that he might send a scout to see what has happend here at our Great Kraal, and having seen the armies encamped about us, he might send us aid from that Great City, Sheloza, the Hidden.” Then taking all his mother’s words to heart, Nemanga gathered all that was in the city that could be burned, the wooden chairs and reed mats, the thatch of the old houses and the clothing of the slaves. All this he gathered together in the center of the Great Inner Ring of Painted Stone, which is Holy to Nkosi, and offering a great bull upon it to honor the great Spirit, he set all ablaze. And the smoke that rose from the burning was massive, so that the armies around the Great Kraal all saw it and had great fear, so that they trembled. For to their eyes, the smoke did seem like a great, black mumba rising above the walls, as a mother serpent rises above her nest. And they drew back, fearing that the great lord Tokolosi had turned his eyes from them. So they gathered all their muthi and called all their wisemen to see what the spirits said. Meanwhile, as the great infero blazed, far away on the moutains of the dragon’s back, the brother of Nemanga, Lethemoso, who shot three arrows from his bow, saw the mighty smoke rising and knew it came from the Great Kraal. He immediatly sent his fastest runners, carriers of the cheetah totem, to see what was the matter. These were Kama of the Spotted Shoulder, and Regemana the Younger, who both calling upon their father the cheetah, ran with swiftest speed across the wide grasses to where the wall of the Great Stone Kraal had stood for centuries. And having seen the great army of the serpent, they returned to report to Lethemoso all they saw. The news troubled him and he himself went to the secret river in the moutains, where the water flowed up instead of down, and following it up in his fastest canoe, he reached the great stone doors that led to the vale of Nkosi’s blessing, where the ancient city of Sheloza was hidden. But as the doors could only open during moonlight, he camped at the gates and kept his watch. Meanwhile, the lord Tokolosi, seeing the great conflaration was still not large enough to his liking came as a shadow behind Nemanga where he stood at the center of the commanders of the armies, and spoke whispering words into his mind and soon Nemanga himself thought the fire too small. And being of the golden tongued ones, he convined the generals of the same. And soon all the bedding and all the doors of the houeses and all the clothing of the people, even of the rulers were added to the fire. Even the hair was shorn of and offered to the great Spirit Nkosi to make the fire larger. But Umshlanga the beautiful alone’s hair was untouched. For they said, surely she should be spared the ignobility of being shorn. But as the words of the Lord Tokolosi still burned within the heart of Nemanga he still saw the fire as too small. And demanding that Umshlanga sacrifice her hair as well, he said, “Come now, woman, lend your aid where it is due! Can’t you see we shall all soon perish, even you, with your glorious head covering, will die when the armies of the serpent rush through our walls and eat our flesh.” “Not I” she responded, “For my beauty shall spare me and my house and purhaps even the city. I have been blessed by the great daughter of Nkosi, she who walks in the deep savanna and shaves the hair of the mighty lioness for her own ornament. My beauty is not my own. Not to be given away. Not to be taken. Lay not a hand on me, son of Magebe!” And all the generals shook with terror that she would invoke the thought of the wild daughter of Nkosi, whose sharp ears like a gazell always alert for the hunter, turns this way and that at the mention of her name. Whose horns, like the mighty ox gores the hearts of hunters, whose tusks like the strong warthog, tears the heart to pieces, whose claws like the mighty tiger, slices the heart to shreds, and whose teeth, red like the lioness, devour both the heart and the soul of her prey. But Nemanga was not moved by the terror justly due, and spurred still by the whisper of Tokolosi, reaching out, sliced a handful of her luscious hair. Immediatly, a mighty growl, like that of the cheeta before it pounces upon the zebra, clasping its haunches and bringing it to the ground in its deaththrows, echoed across the savanna as the wild daughter of Nkosi knew one of her own had been touched. But Nemanga still headless of the warnings, threw the hair upon the great fire. None had seen, but the eyes of Umshlanga had changed and were like the eyes of a lioness, fierce and golden and terrible to behold. For the daughter of Nkosi is fierce and wild and mistress of all that is her own. And as mistress of all, she commands all, even those whom she has touched as her own. At that moment Umshlanga was not herself but was the daughter of Nkosi. “Foolish, Nemanga! You have undone yourself!” her voice was like the roar of the mighty lioness, “Look now, see the destruction you have brought with your pride! See! The hair you stole even now rises up in the smoke, bearing the flames you so worshiped higher and higher!” and it was true. The burning embers, like shooting stars, flew higher upon the night breeze towards the home of the Star-walkers. But the daughter of Nkosi turned to the son of Adamantos, the Storm Maker, and calling to him said, “Son of the Old One, look now at how these mortals have dishonored me! Do not think that if this goes unpunished they will not soon dishonour you as well. For al of our honor is tied together, and when one falls all of us will fall.” And the son of Adamantos, who flies upon the night, answered to her, “What would you have me do, Mistress of the Beasts?” And she of the golden eyes answered, “Let loose a bit of your breeze, and let the fires of Nemanga flie towards the palladium, that he may suffer for his hubrus!” And the son of Adamantos did as she asked, and let loose a bit of his winds, and they rushed the flying sparks away from their journey to the halls of Nkosi, and pushed them back earthward to the Great Painted Inner Ring, where the palladium stood. And no sooner had the embers touched the wooden palladium soaked in holy oils and jeweled with resin, then it took flame. And burned with a mighty red flame that stood like a spear up from the Great Inner Ring. And all the people of the Great Kraal began to wail. For without the palladium, all hope was lost. From outside the Great Stone Wall of the Kraal, the armies of the serpent gathered to hear the word that the augurs had read from the path of the flying red cranes. “Hear O People of Tokolosh and of the Great Mistress Isa the Warlike. What need have we of signs of birds? Look! See the great sign that the Lord Tokolosi has revealed. Over the stronghold unsurpassable now stands the sign of the spear. And the black sign of the serpent wraps about it. Tomorrow, the serpent will trust the spear into the heart of the Great Kraal and all will be laid to waste! Not even the palladium will protect them from the might of the Lord Tokolosi!” And all the armies beat their spears upon their shields, and the soldiers of the Mistress Isa the Warlike stood to the side, looking to their leader, the Undead Captain Enri. But he would not approve the sign, because he had not been visited by his Lady yet, to confirm in his heart whether the serpent was truly stabbing the city, or whether both serpent and city were both transfixed by the great spear of Nkosi.

The Touch of the touched

You

Standing

There

So close

Enough to

Reach

and Touch

and touch

and touch

Fingers sprinting through space

Skin within our skin

Yearning to break

To reach

to Touch

to touch

to touch

that place between

that place within

that way we've been

touched.

No.

I can't

I shouldn't

Couldn't

Must not

Cross

The space

The air

The skin

No reach

no Touch

no touch

no touch

But I yearn

I long

I am so thirsty

To feel the touch of another human being

To feel the skin

To know where you are

To reach beyond

to touch beyond

to touch the beyond

Restraint

I will restrain myself

I will contain myself

I will slowly slay myself

With rope and rule and rhymes

I will not reach

I should not reach

Enclose the space

Enclose your throat

Touch your lungs

One must go

You or I

One must stay

So this is the way

I relinquish this hold

I let you slip away

The space growing

The yearning glowing

But restraint

Always restraint

Be free as a bird

Go where you may

I shall not cage you

With my affection

My need to reach

To touch your hand

I will contain

I will restrain

and bare the pain

In lonely nights

When winds cut my soul

I wished you where there

As if you could make me whole

When no blanket could cover

The bareness of my pain

When no shroud could hide

The anguish of my name

But no friend showed

No matter how hard I prayed

Only fiends glowed

In the nightime's shade

Then I most yearned

To reach for your hand

To pull myself up with

So that once more I could stand

But I coudn't and can't and never will

Grasp at your hand as I would

For fear that once more

As I reach for some strength

That hand is withdrawn

And I am left here alone

Touched by the might

of the single

the lone

the touch

of the touched.

Burning Alone (Draft 2)

This is the second draft of my Memoir piece, Burning Alone. While it is a work in progress I feel that this is probably the draft I will end up submitting to my writing workshop for review. I would like to express that, I hope I painted a better picture of my relationship with my dad in this, in that I really did strive to make it clearer that while he may have done a lot of things, and said a lot of things that I don't agree with, his motivation was always him trying to do good, the best way he thought he could. And that this is simply one side of many. In what ends up being the final draft, I hope to incorporate more of that, to paint a better picture of how he has many times come to my rescue when my car has broken down, or given me the tools that have helped me become who I am. And for that I will always be grateful. Because even this experience, as painful as it was, also helped to shape me, in a positive way. And I feel that life is really about taking the worst, most horrendous circumstances and events and finding the positive that can come out of that. So without further ado, here is Burning Alone, Draft 2.

Burning Alone

The shadows of the trees reached like claws, trying to grab me as I ran away from the house. Though I had ran the familiar path many times before, never before had I ran it because of fear. I slowed my pace as the incline of the hill increased. Across from me was the dark park, a deep pool of shadows and corners with the sillouettes of basketball hoops towering over it, offering the perfect hiding place. But it was just too perfect. If I hid there from him, he was sure to find me. It was the first place he’d look.

As I kept running, my lungs burning, cheeks burning, neck burning, I felt like I was on fire. Not even the cool of the night air could quench the inferno that raged through me. But I was not angry. There was still too much shock, too much raw emotion to figure out what I was feeling. It was an adrenaline fueled fire that exploded through my eyes and caused my fingers to tingle with hot electricity.

A thought suddenly sprang to mind. I had to get off the road. If he didn’t find me at the park, he’d follow the road up and there was no place to hide for another mile and a half of suburbia. I slowed my run and ducked behind a dirty, green minivan. Crouching behind it, I saw my breath come out in ghost like vapors. I held my breath. Nothing to give me away, except my pounding heart.

I recalled the times before I had held my breath like this. When I was small, growing up in South Africa. The houses were poorly insulated, tin roofed, and A/C was only found in rich people’s cars. The nights were warm and muggy, with mosquitoes and the sound of the television coming from up the hallway. It was on those hot, muggy nights that I would lie there, eyes open like saucers, listening. Just listening.

There it was again. The sound. Like a footstep outside. Or a hand on the bars across the window. I would pull the blanket over my head and shut my eyes and hold my breath. And I would pray. I learned the fear of God, not from some boogie monster but from true terror brought on by the fact that I was about to die. Kids just like me were killed every night. What was there to stop them from killing me too? Or doing worse.

The dog began to bark and a chill ran down my spine. There was only one reason why Brakenjan would begin barking like that. Someone was outside. My whole frame shook under the blanket, where the air was beginning to grow hot and damp. But as sure as I was that I was dying by asphixiation, it was still overcome by the fear of pulling the blanket down to see the grotesque, black face spread into a fiendish white grin before the knife fell or the trigger was pulled or the large hands grabbed me up from my bed.

I would often wake up in the morning with the red and blue blanket still over my head, if the nightmares had not woken me before then. When the fear came, when the nightmares came, when the noises came, when the barking dog came, sometimes I would scrape together the last pinch of bravery I had, not content to die under the blanket. I would throw it of and roll of the bed, crouching on the floor.

In that moment, ever shadow seemed to move with sinister intent. To a six year old it was the moment before the end. But then I would lunge towards the wall and inch along it towards my door. As long as I kept my eyes on the shadows they wouldn’t move. But I knew the second I blinked whatever was hiding in them would jump out and grab me. So I waited until the very last moment to stop watching them.

And then I would run, as fast as my bare feet would carry me across the thick carpet towards my parents room. It was not uncommon for me to seek sanctuary there. Until I was five I still spent almost every night in their bed. And even at nine there were still nights when my mattress would be dragged into their bedroom and I would sleep on their floor. Being close to them was comforting. I felt safe.

On this specific night, when I was seven, I had been asleep on my mattress on the floor of my parent’s room when I was suddenly jarred awake. My mother’s heel quickly disappearing into the darkness above me. I sat up groggily and asked what was going on. It only took a second for me to realize what she was doing. She was busy trying to open our safe. She was going for my father’s gun. Which brought the question to the forefront. Where was Pappa?

As she ran by, she apologized quickly for stepping on me and ordered me back to sleep. Later I would find out that the small alarm embedded over my parent’s bed had gone off. My father had risen and gone outside to check on the motion detectors. The dog wasn’t barking anymore, just growling. When my dad got there, he saw the tiny animal with a vehement grip on the calve of a black man, both snarling at each other as they were locked in combat. Immediately my father was outside, tackling the intruder to the ground.

My mother’s first instinct was the gun. What if the intruder had a weapon or a knife or something? She was not about to become a widow. So she ran into the room, forgetting about her sleeping sons on the floor, stepping on my head in her mad dash rush to the safe. Then grabbing it she ran to the courtyard door and called out to my father, who had wrestled the intruder to the ground by now, pinning his face into the gravel.

She yelled “Gun!?” and he replied “Rope!”

After the police arrived and carted the intruder away, my parents came in and told me the story. I slept soundly that night. Not only would I have an amazing story to impress my friends with the next day, but I felt safe knowing my dad was near.

Back in the moment hiding behind the minivan, I wished that I could still feel the same about him being near. But I may never again.

It began like all our arguments. There was the sickening, coiling feeling that sat like lead in my stomach as I heard his footsteps approaching. I knew what was coming. I had arrived home to find the garage door open like a gigantic mouth, the various tools and pieces of lumber lying scattered about the driveway.

“I’m fixing the back fence. Why don’t you come give me a hand.”

It was not a question. It was a command. I would sigh, get up straining as if the weight of the world was pressing me down in front of the television at that moment. I wasn’t going to pretend that this was fine because I wasn’t fine with it. I knew what would come. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him make me do this work without making him suffer just as much as I was going to suffer.

“What do you expect to get done, holding a saw like that?”

I closed my eyes and swallowed the bile that rose in the back of my throat at his words. Turning around to face him, I didn’t say anything. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, that was my mantra. While he was baiting me, I was treating his comments with the contempt I felt they deserved and refused to answer.

“Here. When you take the saw lean into it with your shoulder. Stop. No, not like that! Like this. Here. Let me do it.”

And thats how it always went. I had never cared about the proper way to hold a saw. And I never would. And I was okay with that. And the world was okay with that too, because they invented an occupation just to cater to people who didn’t care for woodwork: carpenters. So I was not about to start trying to saw the stupid piece of wood and if he hadn’t gotten it by then, then he won’t get the fact that at that moment he is sawing it instead of me.

“See. Easy. Now, you do the next one. We’re gonna keep sawing out here until you get this right!”

I wanted to protest. To tell him no. To tell him I had plans with my friends. To tell him that I hated his stupid sawing and his stupid lessons and his stupid ideas about what was character and what it took to get it and how to be a real man. It was stupid, ignorant, boorish people like him who gave us immigrants a bad name. A name I had tried so desperately to distance myself from through all these years in America. And here he was, trying to force his shit on me. But I couldn’t say any of that. A thirteen year old boy was not supposed to talk back when he was being taught a “valuable life lesson”.

“No. I just showed you how to hold it. I mean, think about it. Its only logical that if you put your force on that part of your arm–hey! Are you even listening. Pay attention! How do you expect to ever get anywhere in life, acting like a fricken faggot who only stands around and listens to opera and shit!”

My eyes narrowed. My cheeks burned with rage. Not only had he once again showed his incredible stupidity, he had dared to insult my love for opera. There were certain things in life that were forgivable, but somewhere I had to draw the line!

“What are you gonna do someday when you need to fix your own fence? Hmm? Are you gonna go ask your wife to do it while you sit inside and paint your nails? You sure as hell don’t have any niggers here to take care of that for you.”

At this point, I just stood up and walked away. Furiously, I stomped every step on the wooden stairs leading up to the house as if it were his head beneath my feet. A thousand voices of injustice screamed in my brain. This man. This, this, step-father, how dare he!

But at least I made him feel it too. He grew frustrated by the fact that I didn’t care. That I stopped trying almost right away. And that was the revenge I took. I would hand him the wrong tool on purpose. I would forget where the planks were supposed to go, and would drop all the screws on the grass on purpose. That would show him.

Inside I would sit down again, pick up a book, put it down, get back up, walk down the hall, turn around, walk back, sit down, turn the television on. Trying to summon normallacy, trying to tell myself that I didn’t care. That I was the one who was wronged. That I didn’t feel guilty. That I wouldn’t allow him to make me feel guilty.

Then there was that sound. The sudden crash as a plate was thrown against the floor. That filled me with more fear than any sound I ever heard from outside my window back in South Africa. Because this was inside the house. The house that was supposed to be safe. In America where everything was supposed to be better. With my father, who was supposed to be protecting us.

It wasn’t the first time he threw a plate. Or punched a hole in the wall. And after ever one of his little outburst he’d be fine. Like a volcano that had expended its lava, there would be nothing left and he would be tranquil and fine, like any other mountain on the mountain range. But deep down you knew he was accumulating magma again, getting ready for the next explosion. At first I felt bad, knowing that I had in part, caused his frustration to rise like that. But later, I just grew angrier at him. It was his fault that I was frustrating him to begin with. He should have just left me alone. Should have gotten the message and quit the whole, father-son manual labor fantasy he had in his head. It wasn’t going to happen.

It was later, at dinner time, when things went wrong. Through the years in this new country of TV dinners and strangers for neighbors, my mother had insisted in one thing; that everyone still eat together every night. So we had both sat and endured the silence that hung over that table. Gradually, normal conversation began to trickle into the air, until finally a collective sigh of relief could be felt from everyone at the table. That was until he brought the tentative and fragile peace crashing down.

“So, yeah, I really like the book. I might buy it.”

“Hah! With what money? Not mine.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t have to. You’re just gonna waste more of your money on story books that won’t ever help you in the future.”

“And sawing will?”

“You better watch it, boy. You should be grateful that I am taking the time to teach you something you can use at least!”

My mother and brothers, realizing that the conversation was growing explosive, began clearing the table.

“Isn’t it true, boy, that you can’t just hide yourself away in your fairytales! The world is a cruel mother fucker and you better be ready to face it! To be a man!”

“A man like you? Who makes fun of me when I can’t do the things you want me to!”

“You don’t even try!”

“I did! A long time ago I used to try and you would say the same things! Calling me a sissy. Saying I was acting like a faggot. And I couldn’t say anything back to you cause I wasn’t allowed to. But I’m getting sick of it! You can’t talk to people like that!”

“You better shut your mouth you little brat!”

“See! There you’re doing it again! I can’t talk to you! I can’t say anything!”

“That’s right! Because you’re just a child! You don’t know anything! You just sit there and attack what I say. But what I say, the way I speak, that’s just who I am. And that isn’t ever going to change!”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way–”

“Shut the fuck up! You don’t know anything! You better stop attacking who I am! Attacking me! I am your father, you little mother-fucker! I can’t control the way I am, or the things I say!”

I didn’t say anything, as the heat simmered in the air of the room. I walked around the table, picking up my plate and carrying towards the kitchen. Turning around, I looked back at him, intent that I would not cry, not let him win.

“You’re just a child. Maybe someday you’ll understand, but until then you better hold your tongue!”

“Everyone can control what they say.”

That was the comment that drove him over the edge. There is a surreal moment right after a shocking action, when both people stand still for only a second. But it feels like years that you just stand there looking at each other. I looked at him and the thought occurred like a distant echo.

He had just punched me in the face.

His words seemed to be distorted and distant as he said, “No one talks to me like that!”

While he stood there, red faced, nostrils flaring, I felt like I was someone else, looking into this unreal scene. This couldn’t be me. This could’t be my life. Other people get punched by their fathers. Not me. Not my life. This had to be.... something else... my father protected me at night when the robbers came, he let me get in the covers with him to keep me safe, he could kick any robber’s ass. That was my father. Not this man who stood before me.

And slowly, still in that same captured second, the reality sank like a weight into my soul and began to blaze like a comet as it plunged deeper. I turned, put the plate still in my hands on the kitchen table, and then walked out of the back door. And I ran. And as I ran, that blazing comet falling inside set fire to my entire identity. Everything I was, everything I thought I knew, everything I believed began to catch fire and burn. And as I ran I felt tears rolling down my burning cheeks. This was not how things were supposed to happen. This was not what my life was supposed to be like.

Now, sitting behind the green mini van I finally let my breath out as I wiped my face clean. I took out my cellphone. I could call my best friend, Tim. He lived just a few blocks away. I could ask to spend the night. I could ask him not to tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone else to know. I felt ashamed. Guilty that I had caused all this to happen. But as I opened my phone to call him, I saw his last message to me and remembered that he was gone. He was in LA for the next few months. I couldn’t call him.

What about my other best friend, James? I tried calling him. No answer. I tried again and again. Still nothing. I thought about all the other friends and people I knew, but none were close enough, none could get to me. I couldn’t drive yet. I couldn’t get to them. I was on my own. All alone. Sitting on the curb behind a dirty, green minivan in the middle of the night. There was no one there for me.

Then the phone vibrated. The display read, “Home”. It couldn’t be him calling. He never called. I thought about not answering. Let them wonder where I had gone. Let them worry about their son. Let them suffer a bit, to teach them a lesson that they will never ever lay a finger on me again. The phone kept ringing and the chill entered my bones. There was nowhere else to go. No one else. All I had was them.

I knew what would come. Apologies and regrets. Sentiments and empty promises. Sure he’d go to anger management this time. Sure he’d talk to the pastor this time. Sure he would change. In that moment, I closed my burning eyes and knew what was coming and knew what I was about to do and hated myself for being so weak, so scared. Like that little boy under the bed covers again. I opened my eyes and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

A chill bled into my soul as all the heat inside was extinguished with a sudden hiss. A slow curling trail of smoke rising like a prayer heaven ward over the ashes of my reality. The reality that my mom’s voice was the only one on the other end of the line.

Undign

Uncertainty, here you are again

Welcome home my old friend

Have you missed this cozy nest

That you burrowed so long ago in my chest?

Sit down by the fire where burns my face

Relax and tell me about your days

Where did you travel? Where did you go?

What did you see? What did you show?

Who were you then? Who are you now?

Tell me your story. Tell me how.

Uncertainty raised his gorgeous head

And with the palm of his hand for its bed

He sighed contentedly by my fire

As he took his draught of my pain and ire

But no words spoke my fiend to me yet

Only lighting and drawing from his lone cigarette

Where did he travel? Where did he go?

What did he see? What did he show?

Who was he then? Who was he now?

Telling his story. Telling me how.

"I left your breast when you put me out

On that cold winters day, when love was about

And I sailed from you on wings of the night

And I sought shelter from the harsh truth's light.

When found I a window in the land so cold

Upon the back of one ancient and with soul so old.

The master of pen and ink and dark dreams

Who unraveled men with a pluck at their seams.

This is where I traveled, and to him did I show.

The road that led back here to your home.

He raised me up to the window right here, now.

And that is the answer to your questioning how."

Old master, forgiveness, I pray you shall grant

Ever to usurp you again, no I shant

Here see, I do place my hands in the fetters

Bind them now with your lies and your letters.

For without you here poisoning my heart

The world has become too grey and too dark

Your poison like silver-tongued liquid fire

Has filled all my dreams with heady desire.

For alas though ambrosia may be fine for the gods

I find only consistent your chains and your rods.

Do not further travel. No more should you go.

For no one will see and nobody will know.

Remake me now, tear my strength from my side

Till all is shell-like and there is nothing to hide.