…
A statement, a slur
Spray paint fouls, faces
knife blades cut deep
…
Representative
Chosen by me, for working
not identity
…
Lies, spoken quickly
Define innocent, guilty
Eyes, gouged out
…
A brow furrowed
Fists, strike closed lip
Red blood stains
…
Marker drawn word
Crowd walks and yells
Strangers hate me
…
My eyes are green
God created physical form
My gender is male
…
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
(The Bereavement of Sweetness. Oil on canvas 17x12in)
…
Perhaps only a woman may know…
Her vast emotions, live safe,
in a fortified city, their cherished relationship.
For years, nestled warm under his heart.
…
Betrayal!
In a painful moment,
her life is besieged by green fire.
Her man, her love, that saboteur,
reveals his villainous tale.
…
Stories bite bitterly into burning ears,
while her throat swells shut,
Rhythmic heavy words ripple the air,
shaking the foundation, of her heart,
causing a mighty pressure in her chest.
…
Her breath becomes rapid, hot tears stream,
trust is leveled in seconds, like a wounded building.
Choking gray dust and crushing heavy concrete,
pummel her soul, and entomb her heart,
in rhythmic cruelty.
…
Her emotions pop like a blister,
under the jagged cut of his news.
Yet, a reddish glow, a rhythmic pulse,
warms the deep rubble.
…
Her heart is lost,
in love, though wounded, its lives,
in the ice cold silence.
She hates him, and loves him,
within the same heartbeat.
…
She condemns him, and forgives him,
in the same breath.
In this moment,
she will endure,
and she will be lost.
…
His fate, their fate,
rests within the moment.
…
The relationship;
Will it be sewn up with black stitches?
A love enduring under thick scars?
Or buried in the cold brown dirt, cried for,
then forever.
a burden to be forgotten?
…
Perhaps only a woman may know.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
Dirty water dripped on my head from a moldy wooden basement beam. Light spilled into the room from the cracks in the ceiling. I was trapped in a deep stone hole. My wrist was clasped with a 10 centimeter iron cuff, it rubbed the skin underneath into a blistery rot. I pulled against in, a 3 meter rusty chain that was bolted into solid rock. Every time I woke up, in the hideout a man sat across from me. He looked angry, he wore ratty clothes, and smell like clean water and soap had not hit his body for months. I waved my hands at him, he would mock my gestures. I asked when he would let me out of this prison. He never answered.
I found a loose stone in the floor. I pushed away the gray dust that shrouded it. I cracked and broke my fingernails clawing at the buried stone. When I finally uprooted the rock, warm red blood fell from my fingers into the dry dust. There was a note, handwritten in ink. It was on a cut piece of soft tan leather. It simply read…
Confess to me, all of your wrongs…
Call upon my ear, I want to hear from you…
You can’t see me, buy I am watching you,
If you speak, I will hear you.
I will heal you, if you would but simply,
I sat in silence, in my own pile of deification and filth. I was too proud, and too embarrassed, to try. I was hungry, and ashamed. I saw the filthy man return. He sat there in silence looking at me. I hated him. I finally broke. I looked up to the ceiling, I said, “I don’t know who you are, but I found your note, would you be willing to help me?”
A basement light came on. I saw the stone room had a large archway, with a giant mirror beside it. The keys to my chains hung from a rusted nail on the wall.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
Lying mouths, like cannon fire, explode words like clouds of glitter.
The snake may lament, “Venom tastes of the sweetest yellow honey.”
Needled tongues, weave a false tapestry. The Devil’s silver quilter,
Red handled brushes, paint wet shadows the mind can’t see.
Flakes of red, flakes of blue and green, cake over hungry eyes.
Warm smooth words slide into waiting ears, like warm butter.
Soon to rot, a thick heavy gray headache begins to rise.
The moon whispers, “Taste my light!” through the darkened shutter.
En-flamed orange tongues lick away, truths lush green forest.
Scents of wood, and the squish of soil, are lost in the ash of history.
Anger will crawl out of its cave, to devour any who might contest.
Its black scales breathe like the rippling ocean, blanketed in mystery.
At midnight, Liars dig a grave for truth, like white ghosts, clawing hard cemetery clay.
Truth, the immortal glowing yellow sun, may burn the liars blanket of glitter, one day.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
What does it feel to have a 20 cm spike stuck in your wrist? It hurts! My arms were pulled out as far as they could go, then they nailed my wrists to the blood stained rotten wood. Six solders was enough to do the task I guess. Their leader drove his knee into my chest and spit in my face. They bent my legs and drove a third spike through my feet.
What does it feel like to be nailed to a cross, lifted up, and jolted into a shallow hole? It hurts! I killed a man, I stuck my knife in his throat. He made a gulping, choking sound. Was he drinking his own blood? It sprayed in my eyes, and on my face. He looked surprised and scared, then his face froze, and he fell to the ground. When they finally caught me, I was in jail three days, then sentenced to death. These Romans don’t mess around.
What does it feel like to be dying in front of an angry crowd, next to a religious fanatic? It hurts! Someone thew a hard rotten vegetable into my stomach, it stole the little breath I had left. The third guy being executed was yelling at the silent guy in the middle who looked like a horse trampled him. His face was unrecognizable, where was his nose? His face looked like it hurt?
The crowd is yelling for him to get down? Is he some sort of conjurer? I don’t understand, but desperate, me and the other fellow join in. “Save us! If you can get us out of this! What are you waiting for?” What does it feel like to yell with your fingers numb, and your wrists twisting a bloody hole around a rusted metal spike? It hurts!
What does it feel like to feel your life being slowly cut out of your body? It is scary. The guy in the middle, he is talking to someone, he is calm, I hear his voice whispering under the pile of pulp face he has. I look at the bits of flesh caked with blood in his beard. What does it feel like to realize you deserve to die, for killing someone? It hurts!
Realizing my fate, getting scared, I never believed in anything but myself. Is there a world beyond this one. I am scared of dying. I ask the guy in the middle, “Will you remember me when you return to your kingdom?” I almost don’t believe I am saying it, I feel something moving inside of me, pushing me toward the truth. The other guy is still yelling. “Shut up! Shut up! I shout, we deserve to die! This man doesn’t! Leave him alone.” What does it feel like to die shouting? It’s a blur.
Zachary W Gilbert, Author 