Monday, December 12, 2011
The Lonely Grave Of Ingram by Robert D. Lyons
Bleeding to death from a wound all too invisible, a permanent scar with clairvoyant fortitude merged from the utter uncertainty that has engulfed her being like a relentless black hole. She limps softly upon sacred ground, heaving her frail limbs, burdened by an aged spirit, upon rich and hearty soil furnished by those once lingering above. She struggles to hold her head high amongst the treacherous spring breeze. She wobbles with diminishing, almost vacant, dexterity toward her only fortress of hallowed ground. Her face tenses, the wrinkles tighten like the strings of a dusty worn guitar; she falls slowly to her knees as if trying to hold on to her soul like a leaf to a sturdy branch. She is the humble caretaker of this forlorn stone. She glides her withered finger along its surface; the small tablet feels as soft as his skin used to be in the security of the nights loving arms. This gracefully etched stone, the symbol of which, as sturdy as the marble it uses as its voyage. The plot she guards so loyally is the final vessel of her hopes, dreams, and loves. Underneath this heavy soil that sticks black as death is her only worthy lover, and with his decaying bones lies her soul. Yet another bright and lonesome Easter morning where resurrection is proclaimed unto the skies by devious human minds. Yet another year of greeting morrow in a cold and empty bed, feeling his presence like an amputee to a phantom limb. Yet his kingdom is one of the worms, a sepulcher forged for eternal slumber, silence in hopes of hearing God’s whisper. She renews the roses that lie battered from the barrage of time as she shakes subtly, a weary traveler who has foreseen a destined, but grim fate. Her promise of renewed love in a trivial realm: a compassionate gesture in a malevolent plain. Sitting patently on his perch lays the watchmen, forever guarding the presence of his master; sitting peacefully to right of the elegant stone, forever steadfast to his principle. This cast iron soul, bound no tighter than any man breathing, hovers in his dreams with a straw hat shading his eyes. The cast child sits year after year with only a twig and line in hands, dangling over the steep of the rock; dying to try his luck. Forever his line will dangle without turbulence, but nor will he glance over the edge into the abyss only to realize that there are no fish. For ever perched he shall stay, till affluence finds his way. A guardian with all his might protects against a lonely night. Fermented tears sprout from her aged and confused eyes, trickling down to pepsinate the barren soil bellow; yet all the love in the world could not bring life to grow. She is alone and terrified in a dangerous world shed from quintessence of dust. Another anxious and torn soul swiftly sucked up in a spring gust.