2016 06 12
Dreams of his eyes bleed through the scratching pen
that calculates how many people died
in endless wars to dominate the land
and drains his brain empty of empathy.
The last writer of tales looks up and stares
through broken window at the busy world
where heads of nice people float like balloons,
then screams at the mirror that shows no face.
"Nothing I write means anything to me
or anybody out there in the world
struggling to survive each calm sunlit day,
so why am I trying to write a great novel?"
Grasping silver pistol, he loads six bullets,
each one forged from the lost key to a castle,
and waves it around like a magic wand
while whispering spells to make peach seeds grow.
The writer walks through bodies of nice people
who stand like paper cut-outs on the sidewalk,
and swims through library door to stand solid
as stone statue of Apollo who laughs.
Aiming the gun at the silver-haired head
of his grandfather who writes a new hymn,
the writer crouches like a forest wolf
ready to fight the tall man with glass eyes.
The gun transforms into a wingless raven
that hops through the bookshelves, pecking at eyes
of children who refuse to read, then breaks
mute windows and soars over clicking city.
"So many people who lived before me
wrote stories that blind my eyes with hot light,
so what story about life could I tell
that no one ever wrote before I die?"
Tearing pages from books with snarling growl,
the writer eats pages from every book
ever written in the history of dreaming
while a thousand pencils transform to snakes.
Ripping new books out of his beating heart,
the writer stacks them into a huge wall
that encloses the true Garden of Eden
where children play ball with his broken skull.