A Brief History of Pain
May 30th 2011 16:26
Somewhere past the 57th floor he must of realized that he’d made a mistake.
It was not like a single petal
Of a Haiku Flower of Youth.
It was a like a stone
Reaching terminal velocity.
The scream pulled from his lungs
As his body finally realized
That his mind was bat crap crazy
And he stopped thinking about it
And done it.
If dying is an art,
Then why is someone else’s life flashing before your eyes?
Oh yeah, your life was boring.
Or painful.
Or both.
Imagine grinding up glass and pressing it into your flesh for no reason.
Every day.
What are you talking about?
***
***
Young men on tropical islands have endured a brief history of pain
To mark their ascension into manhood for centuries.
The ritual torture burned their childhood out of them
And seared the wisdom of their ancestors into flesh raw as meat.
And so he finds himself thinking, as the 37th floor flashes past:
Maybe he should have gotten a tattoo?
***
Oh dear.
With death so near.
Someone has changed the channels again.
And you can’t find the remote.
***
They started at sunset.
After they had put the children to bed.
When the dead Angels began wailing over the prospect of being burned alive,
Parents needed to be able to tell their children,
it was all a dream.
Just a dream.
No one was really piling up the corpses of fallen Angels
And burning them to life.
They were Angels after all.
Burning them only brought them back to life
Rising from the ashes.
Cursing the men who sent them to rejoin the war in heaven
Which they had gladly left by falling in battle.
A dark haired young man who had been so foolish as to argue with an ascending Angel
was struck white and old by one hot flash of an Angry Angel.
But there was no alternative. Without the Angels, who else would
Fight the Armies of the night, at the edge of the world?
***
Contaminated Verses
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