The Burning Woman of the Grey (Poem)

When I first saw her,

She was wrapped in flames.

It took me a day

To approach this strange woman,

But I did.

It's a burning within,

That compels me to confess

All that I can feel,

Even about the burning woman,

But I digress.

When one abandons the Flames,

She is what they fear.

She is abolition of light

To a terrible extreme,

The world of the Grey.

In meeting her,

I was forced to see,

That the world I thought fiction

Was not lost in imagination,

But was my reality.

-Zero

Forced Change (Poem)

Change beckons to me

Through destruction.

An old pen shattered,

Instead of a change of ink.

Even the notebook changes,

Not yet,

But soon,

It's pages almost filled.

I wonder,

What will break next?

My heart,

Or my neck?

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #31

       In the distance I see a graveyard, empty with the souls of the betrayed. It is familiar, although in disarray. Are these ruins around me of a city I have known before? In my telling of my story, have I led myself back to familiar ground? If so, then why does this graveyard stand as the last reminder of location? Ruins tell their own stories, but they are not telling me mine.

       After I murdered Marie-Lynn, I ran for my own life. The world crumbled around me far faster than I had expected. I escaped the law, but found myself convicted of murder and sentenced to exile. The plague of wandering that I suffer now was once willful and wanted. The past I attempted to escape owns and rules the world. It does not need to capture to punish me. Why this graveyard?

       My curiosity seeks to destroy me. It leads me in and makes me read the stones. Surprisingly, most have been left untouched. The decrepit remains of flowers litter the ground. Hers seems to radiate with the flame's light. It can't be true. It has been so long, but her name is just as clear as ever. “Marie-Lynn Goulet – Killed by the man who loved her most.” Why did I have to come here? I can barely stand anymore. The story I had been telling has had its end written, and I want to leave, but I collapse instead. I never meant for this to happen. I should have never gone looking for her. Maybe then, I would not have found her grave.

       And then, I see my name etched on the stone next to it. “Jesse Goulet – The Wanderer – Lost to his own hand to wander forever in purgatory.” The grave had to be empty. I may not be completely alive, but I am by no means dead. Still, I have to check. Six feet of dirt dug out by my bare hands. They ache, but the coffin has to open. It is empty, all except for a note.

       “My grandson, one day you will return to this place and see your own grave. I had your death faked, knowing that you would punish yourself enough for your actions. I offer you now a place to rest. I do not know how long it has been, but old wanderers tend to appear in graveyards. You can rest with her by your side. I know your parents have disowned you for your actions, but I will not so quickly give up on you. I read your papers. You love for her is simply unreal. I forgive you, if you promise to forgive yourself. Take care, and sleep well.”

       I'll not rest yet. I have to tell our story before I can fade into nothing. I do not seek sympathy for my actions. I seek release from the storyteller in my head. I want to make Marie-Lynn real again, through the unreal. But my wandering ends here. I can walk no further, and I cannot bear to be apart from her anymore. Here I will complete our story, up until my own death.

       That day, years ago on the bed that she shared with him, she confessed to me that she too was trapped in the unreal. I had done that to her. In fact, I was the cause of all the worst things that happened to her. As she slept beside me, my mind processed the past, with the car crash at the forefront of it all. I was tired though, and overwhelmed by guilt. My eyes shut on their own, and color filled the darkness. I think it was my world attempting to exist once more, but the colors faded and the darkness came again. I heard her voice, coming through the abyss. No words made sense to me until my eyes opened.

       Marie-Lynn was above me. I could not see past her, for her flaming hair contained me within her grasp. Her face looked playful and happy, forgetfulness in her hazel eyes. “Good morning, sleepy-head. How did you sleep?” I think I heard love in her tone. I did not understand why. I was utterly confused.

       “Marie-Lynn... Am I still asleep?” I needed to know. She gave me a gentle shake of the head. Some hair on her left was brought up and revealed that the room had not changed. But my question told her that I had not gone to my world. Otherwise, she knew, I would have no doubts.

       She jumped to her feet, making me sit up to see her. There was excitement in her step, and the pictures of him that had been on the wall the night before were gone. “Come on! Get up! There's breakfast waiting for you downstairs!” It was then that she burst out of the room, leaving me to my confusion. I could not enjoy that strange happiness of hers. I could not make sense of it. Did she forget all about him and return to loving me? The grief was not present. A reason presented itself to my mind. She might have lived ten years overnight. I had to find out.

       “Marie-Lynn, did you have a nice long dream last night?” My question was posed as I joined her at the dinner table. She had waited for me and very little excitement was lost upon hearing the concern in my voice.

       “I didn't want to waste ten years getting over him after last night. I have a world of my own.” For some reason, I only grew curious. We began eating. There was a bit of silence on the side.

       “Tell me about it.”

-Zero

  

Her Heroism (Poem)

Let the wings of Death,
Cover her entirely,

Silencing her forever,

Consuming her in grey.

This I ask of my father,

The raven.

Let him save me,

From my own creations.

With a pen now shattered,

I painted her essence,

Injected it into my mind,

A terrible self-afflicted obsession.

From dreams of her heroism,

To nightmares of her absence,

It has all been told before.

Let these stories disappear in darkness.

-Zero

A Boring Fellow (poem)

You tell me

I am boring.

I agree.

How could I not?

All that sets my life on fire,

Is that which I hide.

When my mind races with ideas,

Some seeming more vivid and alive than myself,

My lips grow silent in suppression.

How could I articulate them,

When I am overcome by fiction,

Which inspires careful quiet?

Want to hear a story?

I have one here for you.

But my tongue is tied,

So listen to my muffled screams.

Hear your name in them,

And grow fearful of what I have done.

Hear the tales I've spun about us.

Hear this story of mine,

The illustration of my inability to love.

Hear how I lose all,

To the ideal made in childhood.

Stories I've already begun telling.

You tell me

I am boring.

Perhaps it is best,

To never speak.

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #30

       I wish I had known his name. He was Marie-Lynn's promise to reality, and it took him from her. I had only known of his existence for a short time, and yet, his death seemed sudden to me. He was the promise of change that needed to happen, and his narrative lacked the climax. It had ended before its time. That was the tragedy. It would have been better had I been crushed by on-coming traffic instead. My words were recorded, and my story told.

       I held Marie-Lynn on the altar for as long as the world would allow me. She did not cry; she wept. It took all of her to do so, but it exhausted her. As the audience showed themselves out, I felt her body weakening. Even her flaming hair dimmed, tamed by sorrow. Then, after some time, she tried to stand. I supported her, but she pushed me away. Her father caught her as she fell once more. She accepted his help, and in a matter of minutes, she was gone. I felt joy creeping up on me, and I wondered why my love was so selfish. His death brought me hope, but I did not deserve it. I was a monster of love. My mind, as twisted as it was, would not allow such sick pleasure in the pain of Marie-Lynn. As much as I wanted to not let her disappear again, I forced myself to let her go. But I could not control other people.

       Her father returned to me, the final bystander in the dim cathedral. He informed me of his position in her life. We shook hands, and then he asked me to join him, on Marie-Lynn's request. My mind wept for my soul. It imagined it to be decaying, just as Marie-Lynn's fiance was. Those dreadful and wonderful words of hers were spoken between sobs of sorrow. Why did she want me near? She had no idea of the secret wishes of mine. Instead of rejecting me like the curse I was, she embraced the sick man of the unreal. Had my love been less selfish, I might have refused her request. Perhaps if I had, I would not be writing this tale now.

       Upon entering the five-seat car, I found Marie-Lynn latching onto me for strength, as I have done to her in times past and in times to come. We sat alone in the back as her father drove us to the unknown destination in the distance. My very energy seemed to leave me, as if absorbed by the flame-haired woman. I held her and supported her, even though I felt the urge to kiss her in my beating chest. The story between us would not be laid to rest before her, but I would have tried if I was aware. But the only thing I was aware of was the threatening potential of her pain. In a moment, I could have destroyed morality by doing nothing less than bringing a dream into reality. My will held its own, only stalling the inevitable.

       The trip felt long, although the clocks claimed almost no time had passed at all. I wanted to leave, to pull the dead man back and take his place below. That wish would not go granted, as well as lost to the abyss once Marie-Lynn spoke. “Thank you, Jesse.” It was as I led her to her front door. I did not falter, but I wanted to reply in sweet affection. I did not speak a word. It was stage-fright when it mattered most.

       Her father waved us off as we entered the duplex. The inside was filled with warm colours, and the yellowed lights made it as if I could see the warmth. The dresser in the hallway had spruce wood frames containing portraits of him and her on top of it. They were undeniably happy in those frozen moments. The large white gown covered the floor in bits and pieces as Marie-Lynn discovered some energy. Her movements terrified me for they were full of fury, ripping, tearing, and destroying the tainted elegance. She would never be married. I was afraid, not to look, but to look away.

       When she was finished, and the wedding dress lay in shards about the hall, she lost that passion, and crumbled like a statue of dust. I rushed to aid her, but her bare body made me uneasy. My eyes were betraying me for I became, if only for a moment, more occupied with her figure than her well-being. In his absence, my demons were surfacing, and the distraught Marie-Lynn was at their mercy. I forced them away and helped her up. We found ourselves sitting on her bed not long after. This was not my suggestion. She refused to go anywhere else.

       There were no words to be spoken, and so we became the flesh of silence, and its heart was the inability to cope. It had only escalated as Marie-Lynn's tears stopped their march. The full weight of the situation was upon her, turning her face to marble. She became a breathing statue, seemingly incapable of emotion. But there was no expressing her pain. No amount of weeping or howling could ever come close to the intensity of her grief. Her happy ending had been in sight. It had been promised. But the promise had been broken by blood, and it seeped into her, twisting her future into one of sorrow with only one escape.

       “Somehow... I knew...” Her words shattered the silence like broken shards of glass puncturing the stillness of a lake. “When I saw you...” The lake rippled until all that remained was the memory, and the shards stored within. The stillness returned as a facade, claiming nothing was different. The truth disagreed. “I thought... not to invite you... but...” Her eyes grew distant, as if carried to the other side. “I needed to...”

       “But why?” The words outran me and so disregarded the restraint I had been exercising. It set a standard of disobedience.

       “I... wanted to know... if I belonged... in reality...” Marie-Lynn confessed before shutting her eyes and lying down. It was not long before she fell into sleep, leaving me alone in the all-too real room. I covered her with the image of a lion, and then lost myself to the stories painted on the walls. Words had been left behind among a horde of photographs, telling their tale. I could never bring myself to remember his face. My mind was too focused on the damaged I had inflicted on Marie-Lynn's mind.

       Like me, she was trapped by the unreal.

-Zero

   

How to Calm the Beast (Poem)

It begins with a trap,

Lure him into a room,

Fool him into staying,

And pull out your mighty weapon.

Get ready to strike,

It will not take long.

His head is yours to take,

And his heart yours to harvest.

He is reckless,

Uncertain what to do,

And then you strike,

And he drops.

Every note is well-received,

How is it

That you play such a soothing song,

When a beast sits before you?

They call you muse,

Tamer of chaos,

Saviour of the lost,

And hero of the heart.

The beast bows to you,

Like a lion raised with a little girl,

Powerful,

But with a calm resolution.

The bestial wrath gets lost,

Amongst the notes you play,

You don't even have to sing,

To tame its heart.

To this who wish to tame the beast,

Enchant him with your very presence.

-Zero

A Year Ago, Frozen (Poem)

It's been a year,

Since last you held me,

My loving heater,

Keeping me warm through winter.

In my dreams you

Laughed,

Giggled,

Cried.

And when I couldn't sleep,

You guided me through the night,

With steps so elegantly unreal,

To your frozen home.

Now the cold rules,

Mutual departure:

Night for one,

Day for another.

I hope you like it there,

In the land down below.

I like my Mesopotamia,

Up in the frozen mountains.

Now when I can't sleep,

I lay still,

And practice patience,

Waiting to explore another day.

There are times I see you,

In passersby,

Those familiar strangers,

And in beauty itself.

I miss you,

From how I only thought of you,

To our silent bus rides,

And the time spent walking together.

If you were real,

All of this might be touching.

I guess you're with me now,

In the womb of my mind.

The muse who whispered me your name

Has left though,

And I bid her farewell,

As I should have you.

-Zero