Poetic Insomnia

  Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and palpitating fingers. Weary limbs hold her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.

   The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning, for the only scintillating effervescent present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is raw in payment for a desperate struggle against sleep deprivation.

   Every muscle in her body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of herself as divided into planes, according to the split, individual lacerations. It is a sensual torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her intimate surrender. If she were to submit to the covers, her collective entity of enkindled nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window, and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.

   The icy wind holds a surge of energy. Its movements are rich and full of enthusiasm as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the ebbing effulgence, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched, billboards and streetlamps, searching for something to grant this chapter significance.

   She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.

   A remnant of light emerges to violate the ice: to caress, delicately, and to leave trails of warmth in contrast with the strangulating breath of winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun kisses, where it touches, as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin; complete serenity. It strokes the skyline, like lavender lace, and floods her room, rippling to the surface in its final culmination as the closing curtain to an extravagant performance.

   Long, vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour any prospect of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure strives for prosperity, with his head thrown back to imbibe the heat on his face, his ego flexed. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood, gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the brightest visible star, and to wrench it from the sky.

   There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the soot. Erupting as warriors, they climb higher, higher, to a beating battle cry; to a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging and the rectitude to rise there, isolated in time, as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers quaking around the vibrations of their equipment: massive machines, churning the foundation. They are an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who fashioned this sweet melody, solid to the conviction of a single principle.

   Nourished in the amber glow, she loses consciousness.

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One Response to Poetic Insomnia

  1. Brian Faulkner says:

    Beautifully thrilling! Greatly heroic! Magnificently done!

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