Toxic Air

To be in motion,

one must breathe.

To be in positive and productive motion,

one likely will be out of breath.

. . .

The conversation began to poison the air.  To call it a conversation may be a slightly perverse notion.  It was perhaps more of a monologue that had only one audience member and hence only one victim.  I pressed my palm to my ear and scrubbed it in a circular motion as if to shoo away a cloud of hungry mosquitoes, intent on flying through my ear canal and sucking blood from my brain.  I pondered the notion that those who complain often have a script printed on old leathery paper that smells of rot and decay.  The words are fixed, and the heart of the speaker is calloused.  I considered the notion that, to complain is human, sure I will give you that, but to suffer in the stagnation of idle circumstance, blaming everyone but self is toxic and in my opinion, a choice.

I managed to push out a few words under the blanket of a heavy sigh, “Have you considered doing something?” Or was it, “That person has been doing this particular volume of good things for me.”  Whatever it was that I spoke, it was slain in a fury of toxic words from my brief audience.  The suggestion of action or reevaluation of details apparently was not conducive with vomit of words I was enduring. The monologue resumed, and I left the room without speaking.

The silent and crisp winter air caressed my red cheeks as I sipped on hot and sweet coffee.  Then I imaged a swirling cloud of greenish poison drifting out of my head and becoming instantly devoured by a clear blue sky.

. . .

Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert

Replayed Dreams

Think of your favorite movie and play a scene in your head.  How bright is the image?  How loud are the words?  Now think of a dream you have had recently.  How bright are the images?  How loud are the voices?  Have you ever stopped to think about how things recorded in the brain playback with the same clarity.  When we dream does our soul detach and wander into some abstract realm of dream?  Can our lost loved ones visit us when our minds relax in sleep when we can handle the notion?  When I am dreaming the emotions, and people seem so real.  When I think back on them, it is as if I am thinking upon my favorite movie with colors fading and the voices going silent.

. . .

Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert

The Cave

His shaking whispers splashed around me, “I am strong, I can handle this.”

Deep in the belly of the Earth, we walked in darkness.  Yellow flames danced from our torches like ancient dancers.  Red embers jumped and glowed in brief arcs.  Angry eyes blinking into the darkness as they fell.  The wet stone hissed in discomfort.  Muffled silence offered a thick muted rocky scream all around us.  He never took his gaze off of the ground, for if he had, he would see the dried river of bones and screaming skulls lodged into the rock above our heads.  My companion turned to me, his face fitted firm with fear, “Do you suppose the devil is near?”

“I have been with you the whole time,” I whispered as I drank the fire from his torch, and ripped his soul from his warm bones.  A cloud of white smoke clawed at the walls… swirled, grew dark, and was drown in the forgotten void.  I filled my stomach with his flesh and placed his bones into ceiling with the others.  By then, I had already forgotten his name.

. . .

© 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert

Darkness vs. The Light

Flashlights do not have an inverse that spews shadow.

Darkness is only as powerful as imagination allows.

Darkness, has no energy.  Light must sacrifice energy to exist.

Darkness devours the eyes.  Light fuels a weary mind.

Light burns with passion.

Darkness hopes for inaction.

Darkness lies, behind its heavy cold shroud.  Light is warm, and silent.

. . .

Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

Pillared Ceremony

4 pillars hold up the delicate winner,

of life and happiness.

Food: Un-crafted by poison.

Exercise: Unobstructed by mediocrity.

Soul: Unyielding to the dark void of sorrow.

And last…  Sleep:  Where the mind dances with shadow,

and unravels thick demon fabric,

that false skin of the weary.

Emotions raw,

dreams slowly wash clean

with steady breath

the mind…

the fragile floor,

upon which

the pillars stand.

. . .

Copyright 2018 © Zachary W. Gilbert