Evanescent Mind
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
He never was a good father. She thought of his indolent behaviour. A sloth. She clutches her poem, hatred emanates from the frayed paper. She goes over the lines, reviewing the words. She must have read it over a hundred times but a hundred and one doesn't suffice. She feels, believes, that once those words escapes her mouth, the anger will as well. She wonders if he's alone. No, she knows. Six feet didn't seem to to be enough to assure her of his isolation.
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
Sure he was quite the talker. But only a talker to talk. No sound of his own reverberated with her. None. Maybe the occasional fact: 'Eat, darlin'. Keeps you alive.' She remembers his lopsided grin. That scar that he got from the accident. The way he used to look at her. Without shame. Chills. Surely, he is only a pile of bones. A silent pile.
the heart moving through a tunnel,
Alone, that's how they codified him. But his heart too, was alone. Only they thought that. In reality. . . No! She pushed the thought back into the crevices of her mind.
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
That's how her triumph can be attained. By pushing away her fizzles into the dark.
like a ship wreck, we die going into ourselves,
This is why she isn't exploring the fissures in her mind. About to crack of pressure. Like a dam giving way to an ocean of darkness. Open a tad; and that ocean can flood her sanity. She focuses on the poet that speaks vulgarly. She is breathing loudly. Stares creep to her direction. 'Habit of fear,' her nervous smile says.
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
Her head heavy of an ocean.
as though we lived
Almost lulling her to an eternal sleep.
falling out of the skin
About to burst.
into the soul.
Excerpt of: Nothing But Death by Pablo Neruda (in Italics)
