If.
A cacophony of shadows,
and all I feel is fear.
Memories were faded
like a lullaby in
the empty air.
In the never-ending absence
of hope,
I lost
the greatest part of my faith,
and was left—its worst.
The choir sings the cold
breath of sorrow
and joyfully embraces
the nightmares
of the overthrown.
The feeling is haunting
the lines as I walk
the death of light
in the graveyard where
my completeness broke.
I walked the moon behind
and found my pains
alive
they sang,
to the lullaby and to the four corners
they hide
and chanted
spells of whispers
to my wandering mind.
All's frozen and put on fire
to death
and I was ruled by the child
of a never-ending hate,
yet there's a melody chanting
in cacophony of
thoughts
and it's music—to my burning soul.
and i was saved
A cacophony of shadows
And all I feel is fear
Listening to the howling wind
As my fate draws near
Deathly silent, deathly cold
Waiting in the wind
Thinking of the places that
I could’ve been
Footsteps, voices
Who the hell are you?
Let me be where I am
Suffering from the truth
Warm arms, soothing voice
And all I feel is grief
I am such a sinner-
How could this ending be?
A cacophony of shadows
Weaving into tunes
A harmony of whispers
Beneath the silver moon
sinner, lover
A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear.
Deadness in my heart as the time draws near.
Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye--
I wonder what he'll feel when I finally die?
- -
A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear.
Looking at his face as his time draws near.
Tears in my eyes and sadness in my soul
I cry out a final wish- -
"Please, don't go!"
Written from Syria
"A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear.", whispers Mary. She is hiding behind her bed, when she hears another bomb blowing up. And again. And again, while the shadows are still lurking around her house. She doesn't want to get spotted. If she does, her life won't last any longer. So did her mum's. A rough sound. They found someone. Whoever it is, he starts to pray a lot, until a shot stops him from praying any longer. Her granny always told her: "Those people will destroy our town. They say they bring us peace, but all they do is destroying our families. They didn't do anything to make this world better. - Don't trust them!" Someone steps into her room. A tear is running down her skin. She starts to pray.
Why did noone help Mary? She was six years old.
Terrorism’s Toll on Innocence
A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear. Sweat trickles down my forehead, my eyes burn like wild-fire as tears run down my grimy cheeks. My hands cling onto numb legs, I press my torso against weak knees, trying to stop my entire body from trembling, curled up under the old wooden frame of a moth-eaten table. I hold my breath, and try to listen for signs of another inconsolable soul like mine, in vain. The only sounds are those of my frantic, pounding heart, which I'm certain will give me away. An impending fear grips my weary figure, as I wait here, for my short life to end.
My mind races, I always feared I would leave this way. Dusty streets leading up to my rundown house, scorching sun that left our fields dry with pitiable harvests, sickening stench of bodies piling up in pits........indicators of inescapable misery. Blood-curling wails pierced still nights, waking me more times than I could count. I remember cuddling close to my mother, crying into her bosom, as sounds of incessant gunshots took down dozens of innocent souls, one by one, painfully tearing apart families. They would shout out in victory, and leave with fresh blood on their hands, only to return weeks later. Silence would follow. An impenetrable, taunting silence. I would cry myself to sleep as my mother sang songs of pain and peace, and wake up the next morning, grateful to still be alive.
Yet here I am. Facing what I wished I’d never have to, in the only place I had hoped would help me flee from the life I was born with. Education, they said, would help me help myself. A warm sticky liquid meets my toes; I recoil in horror. It slowly spreads across the concrete floor, until I’m sitting in a pool of my classmates’ blood. I bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming in agony. Footsteps storm past, deep voices address each other. They throw chairs, overturn desks, and break open cupboards. My head and heart pound in unison, waiting for bullets to free them of their toil. I hear whimpering, a pathetic plea. I peek from under my refuge. My friend is on her knees, at the mercy of the masked terrorists. My conscience wages a war over my senses, I want to run to her, rid those beasts of their weapons, yet my entire body has stopped trembling, paralysis has taken over instead. I want to scream, louder than the gunfire that still rings in my ears, but my mouth has run dry. I want to shut my eyes, but they’re glued onto hers. She turns, her eyes meet mine, and a bullet pierces her head. Vicious laughter penetrates my skull, I feel my sanity ebbing away, leaving behind an empty void of an emotionless being. The ecstatic murderers stomp out of the room, leaving me alone with corpses. Silence follows. This time, I'm far from grateful for still being alive.
Fear that fear already won.
A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear.
Fear that the shadows will consume her, that those demented demons will suck away her soul until nothing remains. Fear that fear has gotten the best of her, that truly there is no hope left because it has turned to fear. Fear that the feelings of powerlessness and worthlessness will continue brewing that evil cauldron whilst all I can manage is tell her not to drink. Fear that fear will permanently replace joy, sadness, anger, disgust, and all other fulcrums comprising her sentimental spectrum. Fear that I could have prevented this cacophony of shadows from arising in the first place. Fear that fear is just too powerful. Fear that rotten wood cannot be carved and the aspect of her mind that regulates feeling rots away at far too fast a rate. Fear that the shadows have in fact already consumed her, and are now using her to consume me as well - and all the ones I love. Fear that the shadows will consume every single one of us and no human will survive this zombie apocalypse. Fear that victory is not imminent or likely.
But then I repel the shadows with a spell of joy, and only joy remains.
The Language of Corpses
I. Angst
A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear;
bricklayers of history... we
stretch beneath the stale breath of catacombs, thick with
chipped skulls, the musky odor of a thousand deaths;
I spy the stare of eternity in empty sockets, which speak to us
in the language of silence; the gaps between words.
And like you, I wait, beneath the rubble of time, holding my breath (in a way)
for the terrified last… We, careful to sidestep the blood-soaked potholes of history – bent, broken, plastered and re-broken.
On each side, the boiling cauldrons of martyred flesh.
There is a dawn breaking on the blood horizon, just past the smoke and stench of burnt bodies, offered up – awful spice offerings to nameless gods with no faces.
You, Humanity, an ideology gone sour; you, Humanity, the seed of contradiction in “hopeful existentialism”; you, Humanity, a disease with no beginning, and one,
without end.
II. Sorrow
I play with words like pebbles; skip them down streams endlessly, unsuccessfully.
Out further, where lake meets sky, I aim my frustrations when impatience choke-holds, boxes my ears, tells sad stories that hit in places unexpected. “An Ode to Melancholy”,* he said, “An Ode to Rage and Sorrow”, I replied.
Swamp deep in a dream I can’t remember; the mud, a poison that chars my skin.
III. Hope
As death in dreams, so in life – rebirth. A reward for the pangs of burnt flesh, crispy endings in the fire of rage; a burned down Babylon of the self, you are. But you
keep breathing through the thickness, the flames, the fire, looking for hope in the eyes of a bird that escapes you. You awake, step barefoot through ash, let flesh fall from bone where new skin – smooth as a frog’s belly – emerges.
* Keats “An Ode to Melancholy”
A long goodbye.
A cacophony of shadows
and all I feel is fear
What once was my youth
that I held so dear
is hiding
riding
into a blinkered past,
I always knew it couldn’t last
Life’s seemed to skip by
in a murky blur
Where has it gone?
I cannot be sure
The years
the tears
have melted away
and now all that’s left
is the darkness at play.
Semi Shadows
A cacophony of shadows, and all I feel is fear. Shadows of the epilepsy-inducing sort, like when driving through a wooded area and the tall pines are casting shadows that light flickers through at an alarming rate. Piercing one's eyes and assaulting the retinas with one of mother nature's many strobe lights. Or when some bright-eyed little bastard is blessed with the epiphany of how to inflict heart-attacks on everyone in the room and starts rapidly flipping the light switch on and off. Both of those scenarios are indefinitely preferable to the kind of shadows I am dealing with now in the back of this musty semi-trailer. The latch on the door had unfastened from its hold and the door is rolling up a bit and slamming down in response to every pothole we drive over (so many I had lost count). There are also 18 little holes on the sides of the trailer displaying scars of where bullets had raped the metal wall. 7 on my side of the trailer, 11 on theirs. Every time just enough daylight flickers through, their haunted eyes blink back at me blankly. I remember when my mother, in one of her usual paranoia frenzies, informed me that Michigan was ranked #2 in human sex trafficking behind only Nevada. I thought she was crazy at the time, and hadn't really paid much attention.
I believe her now.
Now all of this semi's cargo is believing things they never did before.
I'm brought back to reality as my wrists and ankles chafe painfully against the rough plastic of the cable-ties holding them captive. I can't even imagine what kind of sick pedophile would want me like this anyways. Beaten to a pulp, oozing blood from multiple different lacerations, and glaring wearily from behind two purple sockets.
The poster child for sex appeal.
Now that my initial shock and adrenaline rush has worn off, I begin to numbly sort through my memories of playing with Barbies and dress-up days. My friends and I would shuffle indiscreetly down the hallway to my parents' bedroom, failing to suppress an outburst of giggles and squeals as we raided my mother's makeup drawer with delight. I was clinging desperately to the last shreds of innocence I would ever own.
I can feel the semi slowing down as the scent of diesel fuel mixed with the sweet, metallic odor of blood drugs my senses. A wave of nausea crashes over me as the truck comes to a halt and the voices of men, if they even deserve that title, engage the vehicle. When the trailer door is thrown open and light explodes into its interior, I'm introduced to a new kind of shadow. The dreadful silhouettes of a group of men approach us and I don't feel fear, I don't feel remorse, I don't feel anything.
The shadows move closer and all the things I used to be move farther away.
you’d be surprised by what’s inside.
A cacophony of shadows
and all I feel is fear
Survival instincts
seek peace within the chaos
My name is engraved on
this Demon's rolls
His hands carefully fastened
around my throat,
seducing my
"fight or flight" response.
enigmatic fingers
Stroke their way down,
caressing the G-spot
My heart is beating in my ears.
He makes it come
every time.
A glutton for punishment;
hell bent on self-destruction.
An orgasm of anxiety
secretly enjoying a cold sweat.
asking for relief,
but silently desiring more.
This is my normal.