Tags:
  1. ravenial
    Offline

    ravenial New Member

    Joined:
    Jan 7, 2007
    Messages:
    9
    Likes Received:
    0

    To sleep presupposes waking

    Discussion in '"I never believed in hell"' started by ravenial, Jan 7, 2007.

    I never believed in Hell
    But I believe...

    There's a sleep that keeps one silent,
    Another, still silent keeper,
    And stillness in duality,
    Noise and silence hold dominion o’re the realm of sleep

    To sleep presupposes waking,
    To wake and sleep presuppose existing,
    To exist, we know not,
    But are at the mercy of whatever such current perception should grant us,
    Should we grant it

    And I find myself seeking a bathroom,
    Seeking a mirror,
    Hastening through dilapidated hallways,
    Ceramic walls defined by a myriad of tiny squares adjacent,
    Spanning,
    To the halfway down, giving way to crusting dry wall reaching ground,
    Time to time I pass cracks, run its surface,
    Brown smudges drooping dirt scuffs,
    Across the floor tiles white as the walls are light blue, but flecked,
    By textured black specks

    Shoe squeaks and echoes noiseless, save for footfalls,
    I assume,
    Would be appropriate,
    For the halls continue stretching

    Though I know just where I’m heading

    To secure my fancy and ensure,
    The acceptance of a lady in waiting,
    But really, of myself, insecure,
    One could say

    A doorway up ahead,
    I stop and turn,
    Stop and look within,
    The room,
    I imagine,
    Reeks of formaldehyde,
    In the form of young girls whispering,
    “They’ve all been killed. They’ve all been killed.”
    They’ve flung their wan bloodless bodies over bunked ward beds,
    And acknowledge not my presence,
    Chilled, but as is dreamlike common, unaware of the absence of reason

    I continue to another doorway turned round a corner,
    And looking on splayed space before me,
    Cradles for headstones,
    As they serve the same function,
    Each holding a carcass infant,
    At awkward angles,
    Low and gutteral sobbing cradled

    I hurry away and shortly see a third doorway,
    My trek takes me,
    And staring in, regarding there,
    A pitching forth-back rocking chair,
    Which seated on,
    A woman aged,
    Cold grey hair and bony face,
    She turns her head, a pallid pace,
    And pallid eyes, explore the place,
    On which I stand,
    And me

    I about,
    Reclaim my pace,
    But haste,
    A bit more

    Undaunted still,
    Always I’m sure,
    That I’ve just made some small mistake,
    And shortly find,
    A new doorway

    Inside, I look, but to my eyes a scene familiar plays,
    As girls with tears and faces white, all cry in whispered heaving sighs,
    “They’ve all been killed.”
    Ward beds and the unceasing words

    Away again I turn and make my passage further down the dim,
    A fluorescent light,
    Occasionally, hangs

    Shadowing

    Up a flight of close walled stairs,
    And a momentary,
    Doorway later ,
    Finds me staring,
    At long dead children,
    Crying from their cradle beds

    My feet push faster, leave the doorframe,
    I move myself a hurried speed

    For embarrassment now

    I worry

    I left the party long ago

    And the lady waiting may not wait forever

    How embarrassing to be unable to find a small thing such

    And suddenly my eyes are meeting,
    That same old woman in her chair,
    She turns her head and blankly stares

    A simple wrong turn,
    That was all,
    That the sum,
    And I've begun,
    Back down the hall, again,
    Swift walk,
    To try, a different path

    Down steep stepped stairs,
    Suddenly blocked…
    My way, a lady,
    Motionless,
    She’s elder though not ancient,
    In nurse attire,
    And kind eyes,
    Regard my figure,
    But say nothing,

    Our sights a moment lock,
    And a moment I realize

    My gaze turns up, the woman there,
    A single tear rolls down for me,
    For she knows finally,
    I know I’m there,
    The same place that I’ve always been,
    The sureness of the halls I’ve walked,
    The same three rooms my feet have stalked,

    Without a rhyme or reason

    Simply using it to function

    Some greater indiscretion

    Is not the place I've thought at all,
    For there are no mirrors,
    On the walls of Hell

    The teenagers that killed themselves,
    And cried forever…

    The babies never born,
    In cradled prisons…

    The listless woman,
    Rocking in her chair...

    And the boy that runs endlessly lost,
    Room to room,
    In madness

    And I wake up
     
  2. Max Vantage
    Offline

    Max Vantage Banned

    Joined:
    Oct 19, 2006
    Messages:
    429
    Likes Received:
    6
    That is fantastic. Much applause.
     
  3. _booklovr_
    Offline

    _booklovr_ Member

    Joined:
    Nov 8, 2006
    Messages:
    58
    Likes Received:
    0
    I agree. That was great. But I don't understand why unborn babies would be in hell, because they have never lived. And therefore since they have never lived, they never had the opportunity to sin. So wouldn't they really be in heaven?:confused:
     

Share This Page