Perhaps Hope in a Poet's Purgatory Part 2
Still reflecting on past experiences,
I relive those harsh times in my imagination:
We had to decide what was the best solution
To liberate the sentient concepts,
Abducted by a beaver wearing human skin
From behind the dam on a deserted, desert island,
Across from a decaying city settled in lavaic sand.
We scouted for days- ones we couldn’t spare,
For a way to save us from the tragic end
Of a dream yearning to be more.
When we couldn’t last any longer
Without determining a decisive course of action,
We ultimately decided, “To hell with it!”
And planned to demolish our alleged enemy
With the only way we knew how.
Digging, digging, digging, digging,
We dug into the concrete until, and after still,
The flesh of our hands slipped off,
As if we weren’t attempting to strip away
A wall, piece by piece, with bare bones,
But, instead, imagined gathering soft earth
In preparation to construct a sand castle.
For years, we persisted in gravedigging,
Not noticing how we were already living skeletons-
Was there even a reason to hope for survival
When death had already overtaken us?
No, not us- me
I was the skeleton pointlessly burying myself
In a hope I lost long ago
But still pretended I believed in out of habit,
And like how I realized too late
The state of my mental and physical being,
I didn’t comprehend the betrayal
Of my one and only companion, Emma,
For, at some point, when I paused to glance up
From the task I’d repeated gazillions,
Staring back at me with an evil smirk of triumph,
Body unscathed- with flesh and all, was she
Who was my travel buddy for almost a lifetime.
Not two seconds later,
After her eyes and the sockets
Where mine used to be held met,
The water blocked by the dam
Burst out of its prison-
An eruption I should’ve been ready for,
Washing me away with the tsunami.
It happened too swiftly-
I could barely perceive
My own lack of breath
And the dam’s debris storming at me
As I was shoved, dragged this way and that,
By the thoughts I never knew could drown me.
The flow calmed eventually,
Leaving me to rest on a bed of wet sand
Like a seashell discarded on the beach.
I couldn’t move what was left of my body,
Only able to gape at the bleeding sky of purgatory:
*Sigh* it finally rained brutal irony-
Why did it have to rain at that moment?
How fitting for life blood to fall down on a corpse
When all it wished for
Was the right timing for it to grant life.
My final breath was whispered to the downpour
Betwixt my jawbones peeking out
From underneath the desert island shore-
Fortunate to breathe until then, I guess
(Imagine a skeleton who could live
Until the last of its flesh was rinsed off).
The last sensation I felt was of the hot zephyr
Carrying over myriads of sand
To bury the last of myself in oblivion.
Apparently, however, death was not the end
For when my body died- my soul remained.
Now I haunt the traitorous poet
Who chose words over me, Writer’s block,
Patiently waiting for the perfect moment
To strike back into her living days
Like Earth’s assassin, Lightning.
I’ll dive into her head, erasing her everything
Like she did to the me who believed
In the friendship we, perhaps,
Infinitely could have sailed along in
If never ever we found ourselves in Purgatory,
And this time, I’ll construct a dam obstructing
Nothing but what I’ll make her believe is behind it,
So that when she aims to kill me again
With hands still stained with my blood,
What she’ll find after shoveling into obstruction
Will be the realization she dug her own grave instead.