poem by James G. Piatt



Being is. Being is in-itself.

Being is what it is. |

Jean-Paul Sartre


Inhaling the last breath of the day’s
dwindling hours, an aging man’s
thoughts laden with profound questions
and tainted with the odor of wilting
wildflowers molded thoughts into
grotesque dark configurations. He then
set out with on singular task: knowing
the nature of his shadow.

A voice unknown except in the darkness
of ancient mythos whispered the facts of
death into his mind, which was full of
sorrows, and painted with haunting
memories of bleached bones that lived in
the mutations of the unseen. Trails tears
heard in the sky, melted into vats of
sorrow, as heaven wept. Awakened by
the darkness of his troubles, they echoed
sadness back into his mind, allowing
needles to sing into his bones.

Aided by the stolen songs of a
mockingbird, as was foretold by echoes
of his shadow, unsung thoughts that told
the story about the false saccharine
quality of life, became gorged with
vestiges of unreality like the sap of
maple trees, dripping sweetness into
wounded mouths agape with agony and
awe, the shadow displayed the
paradoxical incongruity that was
whispered across his lost broken dreams.

His thoughts exploded in a path going
nowhere sending pain into the wounds
caused by shards of despair piercing his
fragile sense of corporeality. Trying to
escape, he scratched rhyming symbols on
ocean waves of ancient archetypes flying
atop ocean waves, made blue by the
Fisherman’s breath.

After his mind had fallen into the icy
waves of misfortunes, the moral
imperatives of ought expanded like a
balloon filled with haste, and the pain of
hidden secrets once remembered was
illuminated. His thoughts shape-shifted
over mental paths that faded into
conjurings of dark magic, and his
yearnings fled into the middle of a
stream of metaphors where images
floated in a river of the illusionary. Then,
as the haunting hours swept away his
memories, the strange journey into his
being melted into insanity.

poem by James G. Piatt

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