Echoing Gold, Resounding Silver
Can you hear me? ... Can you? I need you to listen. I really, really need you to listen. And if it doesn't make sense, listen a little more, because there is a meaning here, in its own broken way. If you can hear me. If you can listen. Because... this is broken. This is the last of what was written before the tower's fall, and I wonder when I stopped looking forward to that, and this... is broken. Say it how you like. Cut clear into a silver, mundane world of breakups and mothers and love and legislation. Lacerate true into hearts that don't bother hiding their decay.
I'm not... I'm not hiding the decay because I dress it in frills and metaphors. It's still guarded. Still behind the filigree-silver fence, still a reality ensnared in the only way I can process it. The only way I can comprehend something this broken, this unreal. Are we real? Is this... is this actually real?
Can you hear me? Can you listen? Listen, listen, hark and hear, I know these words bring down a meaning that's not so clear to anyone here. I don't think we're the same. I don't think anyone's been this way in a long, long time. Maybe it's because I'm not from here, because I made this where I live but not my home. It is, and it is not, and I can trace the highways of this delta up from the sea to the sky but I don't think I know what's so important about every landmark seen on the buses downtown.
I don't think I yearn for the wilds the same way you do. Before anything was here, and not here at all, because that isn't me. Before anyone had witnessed this, before even I did. The roses that bloom at this world's beginning, the roses that bloom at this world's end. The roses of a nonsensical child who never found it in himself to stay where he can be found. What I mean to say is that there is meaning here. That this is broken. Do you believe me, when I say this is broken? When I say entropy leaks into a silver world and stains it violet, and we all become the music, oh holy oh holy oh holy, and can you hear me when I say we all become the music, and my fingers drive themselves into my stomach and find purchase within the empty gaps, the blood silky-smooth and not sticky like it's real? Like sweet champagne against innocence, the blood on the snow so picturesque and I'm not a dreamer if I never came home.
I don't think I can be heard, anymore, not here, and I don't think I ever was. I mean something that can't be said plain, because it is not so easily to the lips, slices and spills out from between too-blunted teeth and I scrub my skin raw looking for sores and scales. Like a network without a server, a ping without a road. What I mean is that I scrub my skin raw, looking for sores, looking for scales, and please listen when I say I want them back. Wear a second skin under a pallor of disillusion and dissatisfaction and make it scales and oozing and when you are cut, admit to the decay and bleed sticky and red and true.
So listen, listen, hark and hear. A question that never found purchase, a metaphor dismissed as only that. A single harmony without a melody that ever was heard. A broken heart without a home, a nonsense so real I wish I could call it silver. Because I... do not know the silver words, only golden, only embellished and raw and soft on the tongue but bloody on the lips.
All I ask, all I could ever ask. Look for scarlet, look for blood between the roses. Wet and beautiful and real as silver, real as gold. Look for the way this reality collides with the metaphors that I wish I didn't mean a little too literally. I'm not hiding the decay, just because I don't think it was seen. It's there. It's there. It's there.