July 11, 2012

Our horses are doubt and disaster and we sit bowlegged, bow backed and estranged, grey children of some tainted army. I don’t remember what I’m fighting for. Smoke rages and rises above these shallow, tangled valleys and we salute from the backs of our screaming, sweating mounts. None of us remember anymore…
We are the children of a miracle race, born damaged millennia ago. Born damaged and crawling away from that sacred place, that holy holy place, where God stood strong and untouchably masterful. We began in betrayal, refugees from our proper selves. Broken and fumbling, we grew empires with our atrophied hands, filled our beds with unholy power, and raped the beauty and the joy with which we had been made.
And so our people grew, strange and with an angry strength. We grew into our failure, from boy to damaged man, our eyes and mind in tandem, unable to look back upon the horrors of our history. Instead we see the smoke upon the hills, feel the sorrow move beneath us, saddled and uncomfortably strong. We see but do not remember why our world is burning. We feel but do not remember why we chose to tie ourselves to all the worst within us. And so we ride to satisfy a need to understand.
And in this trackless desert we move through a rain of ash, flesh and hair and bone falling like water, soaking into us. We taste but do not know the flavors of our ancestry. And so we swallow, borrowing what little nourishment this warm and bitter rain allows.
And sometimes there are voices in this massive, empty wasteland and then it is we realize that we are not alone. We try to listen, but our awkward ears can’t know the language of these places with so little practice listening.  We wander on, each time forgetting every sound.
On strange and rare occasion there is a thin and sallow sun that shows its light, breaking for moments through the endless smoke. Our eyes burn with this new fire. We look and cannot look away for fear of losing this new feeling in what could have been our hearts. We move as if to fall from our frightened mounts but our legs have long forgotten how to hold our bodies up. And then that sun is gone.
On rare occasion, when the air is pushed in angry storms, we take uneasy refuge in our passions, laid out like caves at the waist of the hills. The little light is choked as we move farther within, hand over hand reaching out, feeling little more than the uncertainty of our own skin. We breathe deeper here, take thin and desperate delight in the heady squalor of our gasping bouncing from wall to unseen wall, find ourselves afraid of this new place, find ourselves leaving too soon.
We leave delicately, back to our travels from nowhere to nowhere, finding our own tracks from time to time, believing them to be proof that some other must exist. The cities burn and we are all alone within this wasteland that is life.


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