use these nights

This and these past nights, these days without rims, beginnings or end, this matter without substance or outline. Spills from one side to the other, overflowing and uncontrollable. The black smell of death that spreads over every inch of the present and past. Fear for the future as it may lose its palette of colours. Only those basic illusions, reflections of light will rule. Never to wake from night, never to know the evil that roams when the light is gone. Wedged between the decision, not knowing the outcome of either. Fear then handcuffs you to the opening door, unable to walk through or to close. Think those screams will bring a tear to anyone’s eyes? More like hollow wailing, muted gusts of frustrated lungs, of hearts that fill with darkness to the very brim. Nothing can relieve the pressure of the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Here is the truth: I am not real. These words are not truthful to how you feel. The nights are silent and calm. The days are kind and wondrous. The strangers are teachers, the lovers are believers. The brothers are all of blood, the camaraderie exists on each floor through those pre-manufactured thin walls of separation. The black only spreads until the light appears. And light appears at the top of every morning. Its arrival is worshipped, its leaving is celebrated in peaceful unison. Only the occasional thunder of mortars delicately landing. Short circuits of the heart, night after night. One less life, one less doubter.

This is my toast to you on this lovely Friday evening. You lovely fellow heathen. The usual pastime of placing blame will not do now. The history which you carry on your skin has taught you that already, yet you continue. With more determination and a twisted addiction to the desire to dominate. This is the way to force your untruths onto others. Hope you feel better now.

I never know how to use these nights. Wasted most of them to useless sleep. You want to hear that I accept your ways, I have come to believe your untruths and that I cannot hear the angels war any more. After all just one more lie is not much to ask. It is over quickly and has little consequence. So I do. I do believe your untruths to be truths. I accept your ways. I cannot hear much but the angelic choirs of this heavenly peace that descends each coming night. Then I see the land, with eyes closed I can smell the snow. Slowly it covers every bestial act you have left lying on the concrete floor. I paint my house white, you paint yours red. My soul is dying in your arms and I feel no pain. The darkness in you eats away, gnaws on the sinews of your soul. We die in each others arms, convinced of the heaven we have found after so much time longing, searching.

In the thick darkness, in the man made silence there is a faint whisper. Every night I wake to hear the murmur. Every night it is the same. Not louder, not softer, not clearer, not closer. I hear it, I feel it, I can never catch it. Drags me from meaningless dreams, from futile sleep, from the destruction your soul does to mine. I wait. Tonight I will wake again and I hope for as long as I live I will wake in the middle of the night to the whisper, the almost inaudible cry. This muffled sound, the far away songs or yells. Words of caution or the screeching inarticulate noise of worry. These final haunted manic screams of hallelujah.