A prose poem in the vein of Rimbaud's "A Season in Hell"
Oh how I but wait for the cruel hand of time to crash down upon me... leaving me cracked up in the barren waste lands of tomorrow. I hear the Angels sing: “Thou shalt be forgiven!” and the masses cry “Oh how we have hoped for such! Oh how we have waited!” That is nothing but a dream. I am not but a fool. I have tried to assassinate my past selves over and over. Then leaving them for dead in the deserts of my own making, I do nothing but hide my shame filled face.
And return to waiting for the day we ascend or descend to the place which our actions would rank us. How quickly I would board Charon’s ferry and cross even the Styx to hide my face from the land of the living. I think to myself “Oh how I have fallen” and the Angels sing “But child, ye hath never risen!”
And that I truly am! A child! A foolish child slamming his rattle against the bars of his cage. I wail, and wail and gnash my teeth for the contempt I can hold for myself, alone. Oh how I am green! With both age and envy. Envious of those who hide not; who can not, who will not. The brave and the holy. They I envy and loath. Innocence and Piety lower their eyes. If they could, I think they would mock me. Yet they merely cry quietly, solemnly for the death of both Beauty and Grace. For I have trampled them under my own guilty feet. I would sever those cursed limbs if it might help.
But help is far gone and thus I must wait for God, in His wisdom, to rise up and damn me, to hurl me from the Kingdom. The Kingdom I’ve cursed.
Oh vanity of vanities! How I have cursed myself!
4/5/06
And return to waiting for the day we ascend or descend to the place which our actions would rank us. How quickly I would board Charon’s ferry and cross even the Styx to hide my face from the land of the living. I think to myself “Oh how I have fallen” and the Angels sing “But child, ye hath never risen!”
And that I truly am! A child! A foolish child slamming his rattle against the bars of his cage. I wail, and wail and gnash my teeth for the contempt I can hold for myself, alone. Oh how I am green! With both age and envy. Envious of those who hide not; who can not, who will not. The brave and the holy. They I envy and loath. Innocence and Piety lower their eyes. If they could, I think they would mock me. Yet they merely cry quietly, solemnly for the death of both Beauty and Grace. For I have trampled them under my own guilty feet. I would sever those cursed limbs if it might help.
But help is far gone and thus I must wait for God, in His wisdom, to rise up and damn me, to hurl me from the Kingdom. The Kingdom I’ve cursed.
Oh vanity of vanities! How I have cursed myself!
4/5/06