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A Savage Place

He walks upon the road

An empty void;

 A soulless place,

 In the withering midst of autumn:

Barren.

What is there in this foreign land?

The man ponders on the thought

His steps slow, and steadily he walks.

 

If he could feel, would this be cruel?

He has nothing—

No friends, no family, no air to breathe

The wind has dissipated, and the silent road remains;

Soundless, no soft murmurs of children asleep

Happily, worriless.

 

An endless road

Calm, yet so secretive

Possessing no beauty.

So what is he to do

But dwell on such simple matters

That still outsmart man?

 

The horizon is endless; a glowing sky, a radiant sun

But the scene changes

Yet he walks along the path;

A dark corridor illuminated with dim lights;

A ghastly presence lingers in the air

Sending shivers down his spine; blood drains from his face

And he breaks into a run.

Eerie voices whisper –

Or is it a figment of his imagination?

Perhaps he is delusional,

For how could something be so ludicrous?

 

No, there are no voices;

It was simply a fantasy he had built upon

Silently sitting in his mind,

Like a rattlesnake, watching its prey

And attacking at its frailest of moments.

Why are you following me?

 

Again, the road shifts

A coliseum: ancient and grand, fit for a king

Abstract paintings between pillars, fading

Crumbling and famished with age.

His body aches with pain

Yet he saunters to the walls; allured, entranced

Awed by the distractions, he gasps, admiring the beauty and simplicity

Of such archaic structures.

 

And what have we here

But a memory to come?

The young lad squirms, unable to move

Yet he does not have the desire to

Or does he?

He can’t seem to make up his mind

For he is captivated

By the majesty

She calls for him, her soul connects with his

She tells him to stay.

And he decides:

He does not, not, not want to leave—

 

Her eyes darken; they are fierce beneath their delicacy,

A monster–

No, he does not, not want to leave.

Uselessly, he struggles in her grasp

She coos softly in his ear

And he is lulled back to his fantasy

The lass is elegant and kind

And he does not want to leave,

So he closes his eyes: perfect bliss.

 

Drones of classy music;

A piano and a violin on a recorder.

But how, he wonders, in such classical times?

He straightens himself,

His mind begins to clear—

But no, it stops

His thoughts once again become clouded, for they were never clear

And the melody glitches.

 

His head pounds—what impelled it to change?

Does it not realize that he is there?

Of course, it should not change for him

Just for him, the song should be soothing;

It’s his.

This world had been crafted just for him to walk upon;

He had shed tears of blood to have it made

Yet this is how it repays him?

Ungrateful, savage beings

Disobeying their master

 

Anger builds in his body, he snarls

Staring up at the woman who had once been so graceful in his eyes

But is now a hideous beast;

Destroy her.

He snakes his hands up around her neck,

Tightening his grasp—  

She is gone.

 

He sighs, relieved to be free of the wretched lady

He turns and begins to walk,

But stops.

There it is;

That murderous melody

Making his ears bleed

The scene changes back to the dark corridor

Now the withering road

Back to the ancient chamber, then the corridor

The road, suddenly an ocean

The corridor.

The order reverses.

Moonlight:

Screeches, claws raking against a wall

Pivoting and fast-forwarding;

Madness.

 

A hoarse scream escapes his tightened throat,

The song reaches its crescendo

He falls to his knees

Clutching onto his soft locks of hair,

Yanking them out

His eyes bleed tears

His mind is flustered; chaotic.

How sadistic is the world

To do this to him

Such a wonderful man he is

What wrong had he done, to receive this punishment?

What a cruel place

With no route for escape—

 

A prisoner of his own

Trapped in his mind

A fantasy brought to life—

How beautiful, he thinks

Must be death, in this loveliest

He is to himself, and to nobody else

He is the master—

For he might as well have turned to dust.

 

Yet, the music slows

It is still rigid, and the man gasps

Grabbing a handful of dirt, it changes to grass

And then to water

Now dust.

He chuckles,

A grin of dark mirth spreads across his lips

He gains strength in his legs, and the man stands

Staring up at the long road ahead of him

He walks.