Dark Wood - S. Hunter McNair

Dark Wood

gone is the time for crying

gone the days of repentance too

all is flesh and left to smoulder

here on the plain

terrible how it works

how the days pass slow to fast

until no seat belt will hold you in the car

gone moreso, the belonging felt in these burned years

even before most of our times here

the good turned to mould without complaint nor time to try

fear drove the free world out of the warm womb

and here we are

each alone and sordid

addicted to each and every thing you can think of

clamoring desperately for one last thirsty memory of 'something' we each remember

now lost, whether pain, pleasure or sound or touch

before the world sped up

and we each realized we were now someone else

maybe becoming to our parents... just for icing on the cake

each ofus losing time and tracing memories from our younger years

trying to stay within the lines as we recall

as clumsy as preschoolers even at our ripe ages

where did it all go?

that time for crying

those days of repentance

when did we all start to wither and fade

how did we get here

the ever expanding distance between all of us where closeness once existed

are we all going to our own private graveyard

if so why does it have to happen so methodically

cant we go into the dark quickly and without such life long preparation

fireworks

cant we hold onto even a piece of the time and faith that once rendered us each invincible...

when we could do anything we wanted to

what really happens in this time for each of us

what is it that happened?

we have all become dark wood on damp soil

and for all our advances we cannot change

the base determination not look out and see it

we blindly follow the internal habits

we run wild behind race horse blinders

i sigh

i cry

i remember how it is to run for no reason

i see the dark wood

i see it soak in the damp soil

dont you

lust was always sweet

time always slow

everything delicately savoured though we could not tell

flesh at the ready

all within command of an intuitive hand

and then

like wind

gone

fresh warm and pale

like a beach...

heralding faded time

now in time each of us has come to dark wood on damp soil

and as such we too sink into the murk

on mercury's heels

<scottHunterMcNair. March 20, 2008>