ESP (Esprambles): The Story of Life

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The story of life

The story begins
not in the present,
not with any intent,
but in the mind of the writer,
lost, perusing his tomes,
as he creates a new history
with words filtered through
experiences and such
prismatic domes.

The story may
as well be about another,
or you,
or the men who are forgotten,
like our whims,
and our sins,
whose existence we deny
even in our most
unsettling dreams.

It’s a persistent search,
deep in the circular ruins
of unfinished books
and untrimmed wishes,
and he knows,
he has to take the turn,
that the maze ends
at the simple door,
but the platitudes
and attitudes keep him
away from the ending
and a closure.

The aura of latent
promises in him,
and possibilities
lying under the cove,
illuminates the city
of the writer’s trope.
It draws the
mermaids in plenty,
with its brilliant
nautical lights,
and they come singing songs
made of his thoughts
in those lonesome,
dark and dismal nights.

Harvesting each tune,
each note down to the last fin,
he writes the endings
that he always craved.
But with the songs gone,
a silence prevails,
attracting the hungry sea ghouls
who forage for emptiness
within all his finished scrolls.

Gnawing regrets
about the missed plots,
slowly devours every twist
and turn of the story told.
So when he believed he knew
where he was going,
with a purpose, a sense of direction
and that everything was fine,
it was nothing
but the arc of his story
succumbing to an
insipid straight line.

The silence of the lone ego
now echoes in the empty heart,
filling it with deafening screams
as he fills the pages with questions,
taking refuge in the scribblings,
complaining and complacent
the writer goes on to announce
that it makes absolutely no sense.

Stories don’t however end,
all it takes is another
turn in the maze,
or of releasing the mermaids
from their cage.
The story of life
is all about filling the void,
and letting the songs
fill the empty gaze
till another writer comes along
and flips your scribbled page.

[ESP’s writing can be found on Esprambles.]

Vicki Wilson “Sleeping Beauty”

Once upon a time
Along a path I wandered
As a fallen leaf does wander
Lain upon a stream
… as though dancing
… as though careless
… as though young
Wherein dark woods I stumbled
Ensnared by fallow spindle
Which bade me kneel my sacred ground
And I bent my back upon the point
Until impaled… and unbeknownst
Cursed with waking sleep
Stitched shut within a shroud
Despite the mirror and the mist
Muted
And subdued
And fifty shades of greys
Bleeding into grey
Like some tawdry love story
If tawdry is worn and caked with grime
And the love story… benign
And expected
And engrained
In glass funnels
Always upended
With the perpetuity
Of a spinning wheel
Each turn bought with youth, all but spent
Until you kissed me
Full on the mouth.
Like a slap.

© Vicki Wilson

I am an amateur poet, published author and professional technical analyst… all of these things mean I basically solve puzzles for a living, and to keep from dying. I know this because I died once. Metaphorically. Six years of a slow death by industrialised decision making. In the end I was so numb to living I ceased to exist. But burn-out has a silver lining, you wake up and all you have left is steel and the rich black of sticky charcoal to make your mark. I am still learning how to hold a pen, how to form words into a living thing, but my scratchings are mine, they are made with the corpse of who I was. I offer them as evidence I exist.

I have recently published a children’s book – written and illustrated by myself – under the banner of dragonflypublishing. You can find me there writing my next one: https://www.facebook.com/dragonflypublishing.au.