Traveling down blistered asphalt
Ripped asunder by all manner of
Natural agitation and man-made
Stressors walks on such irritant
In his dusty ankle boots and
Khaki pants with the crease
Slightly faded.
Into the building he walks to grab
One or two things that will
Be needed to prepare the evening
Meal that he always takes alone
Not because he wants to but
Because he has yet to meet
Anyone he could possibly bring
Himself to speak to about such
Warming thoughts.
Alone he sleeps under the thin
Guise of platonic courtships
In library aisles choked on the
Smell of aging books and
Dying ink yearning to be absorbed,
But no one ever peels the cover
That is cracked and faded yet
Beautiful in its decay.
The next morning he awakes and
The roads are under construction,
Not yet made like they were only
Hours before he died for a time,
The store only has packets of
Salt and a few stale packages
Of bread left from before
Our brothers abandoned us after
A change of heart.
Perplexing streams of incorporeal
Rhythms and vexing beats
Flow as empty streets breathe
Heavy sighs as setting sun bids
Farewell to prosperity up north,
Calamity down south, but the man
Returns to his abode to spend yet
Another night wrapped in his mind,
Present fleeting.
The next morning he awakes not
Where he is used to awaking but
In a different home with no corners
And sun piping in through the roof,
Intricate patterns of vivid colors hang
Around his gaze, not fixed and jolting
Across wooden planks and rusty stove,
Putting on pointed boots and simple robes
Outside he ventures.
There are strange men in strange clothes
That at one time appeared normal
Scattered about like ankle bones and
Playing cards, shuffling about, prodding
Golden-clad figures and their
Maroon flock to a discreet field where
Lambs and goats bleat echoing prayers
Escaping to heaven.
Everything changed and everything will
Grow from smoking ash of the factory belt
Where the man once had his three squares
And fashionable clothes, for the time,
But nothing changed, despite the
Superficial camouflage of the home
And the people he surrounded himself
With, the harrowing truth swooped upon
Him like a western hunting eagle:
The was no escape.
He slept again, and had no dreams, for
When he woke in his circle house and
Stepped across the threshold there was
Not a single thing to be seen, only the
Vast nothingness of grass and rocks,
No rivers or mountains or
Mineral thieves and braying devils
With horns discarded casually in
Gutters and fields alike for bow makers
To fetch and twine.
Down he bowed on one knee and
Surveyed the wreckage that he had
Wrought upon this land that had no
Owner to demand tribute or fealty,
Alone he kneeled for the first time
In his short life recognizing that all
That surrounded him at this very moment
Reminded him to gaze upon his wrist
And decide in his hardened mind that
His watch was broken.
Composed 09/03/2012
Author’s Note: This one ended up a bit disjointed, as I was a bit vexed upon its composition. Just contemplating the mysteries of the advancement of the Mongolian people, I suppose.
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