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written by: Stanley W. Shura
The infinite dark wields its paint brush.
It strikes me with mean ungentleness.
My legs disappear with each passing stroke -
not with any merciful swiftness, no,
but as a pin prick joined, a second at a time,
by a thousand, and then some thousands more.
My toes disappear.
I lose my balance and fall -
not to my end, as that would be too kind,
but only so I may gulp at the wind,
and suffocate just so much! -
over and over. Alas, it's never over.
The canvas that once grounded me
is growing a saturated a sickening merlot
while my head spins and tingles
with disorientation and with yearning.
My eyes see red - both that of evil and of envy.
I pine for some conclusion to this mad and infinite burning.
My ankles now are dissolved rubies,
although they reflect no jewel's light.
The blank page - it beckons me still,
though I cannot walk.
And so it chortles - consuming me an inch at a time,
while I absorb into the carnal lust of the hungry easel.
And on and so - my knees - no, they cannot buckle.
My lower half now merely a palette's appetizer.
I think I hear a chuckle far below my panicked sobs
as the artist's stomach is filling with my own.
"What is wrong with you!" I cried.
"No" came the choral reply, "What is wrong with YOU?"
And soon, my heaves are stilled.
"Boom boom. Tick tick." The clock now stops.
I see, hear and speak no more violence.
My very soul hovers over death.
And that which once spoke is forever silenced.
The muse, amused, has stolen my last breath.
Writing has been an outlet and a salvation of mine since childhood. Thanks to some supportive and encouraging teachers, particularly in high school, I gained confidence and discovered I had a lot to say and the means to say it.