requiem
It's the Confutatis maledictus and I tip my head back and listen, it's dark, softly damp velvet on my ears, the color of deep indigo purple, a fading bruise.
I haven't slept enough for days, for weeks now. I know this is part of the manic, I know this and I know just as certainly where this is heading. This movement tells me where it is heading because I cannot maintain indefinitely.
When the accused are confounded, and doomed to flames of woe
yes, that, and the flames are that darkest purple rising up my spine. It doesn't ever stop trailing behind me. I am accused, I am so very guilty, this fundamental flaw in the most basic wiring of my brain.
call me among the blessed.
This does not exist for me, I am cursed to exist in this manner, isolated by my own hand, crippled by my own fear.
I kneel with submissive heart, my contrition is like ashes, help me in my final condition
That dark grey taste lingers under my tongue, chalky and accusatory. This is no help for this condition. I am doomed.
And now it's the Lacrimosa, those weeping strings that sound of a breaking heart and that hematoma in my chest swells further, threatens to burst open. My eyes close because they must, because you cannot listen to the Lacrimosa without turning off every other sensation and becoming one with the music until it defines every cell...
that day of tears and mourning
That is every day, every grey hopeless day that tears away at my existence because after all perfect health is simply the slowest way to die. The surge of music destroys me.
There's the timpani and it sends chills up my spine, the most dismally satisfying resonance of an aural orgasm.
grant them eternal rest, Amen
And respite is the pale lemon yellow of a summer sunrise where the air smells like hope. And like a summer sunrise it is nothing but a distant memory.