Void

Some nights while he is sleeping,
I stroke the splintered edge
of the inhuman void inside him.
I press against its muted black
and try to hum its hollow ring.
But when his eyelids open
and let the dirty bedroom light
infect the thoughts twisting behind,
I dissipate. Like smoke, I hide
in the dark hallway of his past
where everybody's door is locked
and every picture's perfect face
turns from him and fades away.
And that is all he knows
of any other face:
those restless eyes
seeking escape.

Oh, if he could catch them,
he could make those clear eyes believe
in the precise steps of his movements,
the crystal smoothness of his voice.
He collects each nod and smile,
the priceless reward of his art,
but underneath their warm approval
through the hallway to the dark,
there is the unthawed void inside
where self-love’s brittle match
still strikes with fervent effort
but never succeeds to ignite.
The void asphyxiates the sparks,
unstitches each moment’s meaning,
bleeds dry the beauty of his dreams
till only ashen dust remains.
Dust is all he’ll ever be.
So he says words he doesn't mean
and controls people for the fame
and calculates behind
his honeyed mask
of lacquered shame.

His power is the quickest drug
to pass the nights without feeling
or fighting dreams of broken frames
and faces turned away
and doors beat by his fist
that no one opens.
The power lets him sleep alone
without the glow of tear-shined eyes
or fingers groping at the void
to touch the worth he cannot find.

In response to an athiest who believes life has no purpose

Our natural inclination as human beings is to feel loved, wanted, special... meaningful. You resist that desire to instead feel unpurposed, separate. Is it because you're afriad? Are you scared because you know that if you feel that way, if you hope there is a purpose, that you will decide again later that there is no purpose, and then have to feel again the pain of not being special?

I think I should define what I mean by a purpose with regards to the universe... designed, planned, created with some intention unknown to us by some force, energy, being of which we are unaware. This differs from what you believe mostly in that although I don't know the purpose, I do not believe the universe just happened, by accident or sheer chance.
Humans have flawed perceptions. As I've said before, we have mathematical proof that time is the fourth dimension, yet we can't perceive it as that; we can only experience time at one fixed point and move forward along it at a fixed rate. To me, this proves that there is much more to the picture than we are seeing. If I had to guess whether there was a "purpose" behind human/Earth's/the physical universe's existence or not, then I would assume there was some plan or intention behind it. It seems impossible that everything could just spring out of the void of space and turn into what we see today by no action of a higher power, consciousness, energy.  If it did come from a higher source, why would all this energy be expended on creating what now exists without some reason according to that creator?
So as you can see, I do more or less agree that the universe exists for no reason or meaning that a human could conceive of, but I firmly believe there is a purpose and something that created everything we perceive with that intention. Therefore, I believe there is a reason for human beings, for plants and animals, for water and stars and meteors. I believe each part is valuable and contributes to a fixed system that was created with the intention of a higher consciousness.

Now, logic aside (since human logic isn't worth much anyway), I personally believe that everything that we can perceive and all that we cannot are unified parts of this higher consciousness' energy. I can't defend this claim with logic or data, but I think when you realize how connected everything is on a molecular level (exchange of electrons, for example) and when you understand how interdependent humans (and everything in the universe really) are, such connections might persuade you to believe everything is a part of a larger whole and all is one.

Eternity in a Car Accident

Underneath piling gray slush,
ice seals the road like glass,
an unopened window to death,
spilling out to kiss

the shallow tread of my tires,
which meet the ice with no restraint
in the way their ceaseless spiraling
quickens the world

around my spinning car
as I realize the turn
from its forward progression
to twisted disregard

of the steering wheel I grip,
a faulty control on my life,
that, when I pull to set it straight,
only drifts further

into a memory of your flushed neck
pulsing against my cheek,
as I gently squeezed your upper arm
and heard your laugh

as though you were beside me now,
alternating both your hands
to turn the steering wheel faster
and drive circles

into the parking lot of snow
until I'd laugh and squeal,
“Enough, Kyle! Stop the car!”
and you'd finally slow down.

Father

How would I live without your austere gaze?
Would I still scrub dishes till my skin cracked,
skip parties, studying to get all As,
spend extra hours training at the track?

No longer dodging the slaps to my face
or crying as I pound my room's locked door.
Not being called a “worthless waste of space,”
would my youth's laughter finally be restored?

Now it's been three years since I moved away.
I run each day, wear make-up and perfume.
I tear up any tests below an A.
Sometimes I cry inside my locked bathroom.

I'd always thought you were the one I blamed
and never saw you were who I became.

Parallel

In a shard of the mirror I have seen the face I will never forget.
I have dissolved into a million particles while the shell remains intact.
I will be demolished to return to you, to erase all I have lacked,
to be pulled into the transient space of the moment that we met.

Now the blood in my veins detains me, weighing me like chains of ice.
I lost my will; my heart is pounding ribs for another breath.
But I am tired of pretending when I need more than life and death.
A wilted blossom of useless hope is never going to suffice.

Hate is not enough to avenge all the dreams I have watched you burn.
You are a secret producing, nourishing my desire to be more than flesh,
and my disgust to discover I am only so much less.
Something basic, like the dust to which we all return.

Leave me here to destroy the world you claim to love,
to be creation and destruction of this enigma from above.

Winter in Guernica

The same beats start it off.

On my thirty-seventh birthday,
I could feel the seasons changing.
Houses strained against the brutal thrust
of a wind that stripped the world of green.
I felt the bare wood splinter against my touch
as though only to obliterate you from my mind.
Tarnished gutters choked on the last autumn rain,
until I relinquished my hope with the dying of day.
That night, all color was silently washed away.

When I found you the following week at El Árbol,
you said, “The ideas of the world are changing,”
and yours were changing with them.
We parted dispassionately beneath the oak
as the last of its leaves shivered from their branches.
The leaves never again graced that tree
and neither did we.

Last night a dove flew to my windowsill.
I suspected my sign of resurrection,
but its beak merely stole the life of a moth.
The body descended to rest on the cold barren clay
as wings and ideas slowly blew away.

In this manner, I am extinguished.
As you burn on like a Luftwaffe incendiary
in those crowded streets of fear and anguish.
Through twisted forms and shades of gray,
I might catch a glimpse of you from my window,
y olvidar, no puedo.

One Day

I have always believed that there is one trial in life we all must pass. When I was younger, I was in love for six years, the most devastating, committed, desperate form of love. I was certain all the events centered around that one love were my test of strength, would display my passion and endurance. But years passed, words were said and events occurred that rendered everything useless.
Driving to work. Any other day. My small classroom empty, but soon to be filled with 15 little preschoolers each thrilled to see me. I had decided to become a preschool teacher in high school, when my boyfriend told me that I could never disappoint a child; I only had to give them their juice, and they would be happy. Seems a silly reason, I know, but I always had an overwhelming fear of disappointing everyone when I only wanted to make everyone happy. And now all I am is a mess. Everything is a mess.
Twisted metal, screeching tires, the world spinning, and shattered glass. The force of the impact. The exploding airbag. The calm of shock, and the residual panic that would follow. Everything in those 60 seconds blurred together, twisted like the shells of our cars, indistinguishable from a consequential chain of events. Was it your fault? Was it mine? Will I be here when you wake up? Will you ever wake up?
I last saw you unconscious in a white hospital bed (and I know how you hate hospitals), fragile, your transparent skin still riddled with the scrapes and bruises of the crash. I don't know where your family is. I hardly know where I am. And I don't even know who you are anymore. Right now, I really wish I knew. I'm so sorry this happened. I don't know what I'd ever do if you didn't wake up, how I'd continue every day when fate has so obviously twisted to find me. Why am I always tortured?
The doctor steps out with a clipboard. I dread the grim look set into his face. He looks around, but it's only me. I want to tell him I don't know where your family is. I want to tell him I love you. But he just shakes his head and turns away, walks back through the swinging doors. Swish, swish. Years have passed me by like a dream. Five years since I gave up on dreams. And I don't even know you.
A worried family rushes in. An older woman in tears with her husband's strong arm wrapped firmly around her shoulder. A confused and stressed out looking 18 year old girl. They don't sit down. They whisper amongst themselves and glance around the waiting room. I look away, not wanting to stare, not wanting to intrude further into a family moment.
The doctor comes back out, clipboard-less, and walks slowly and surely toward the huddled unit, the shaking, unstable mass. I can't face that absolute certainty. I can't watch those fear-filled eyes. I grab my bag and hurry for the door, even without a car, even with no one and no place to go. I cannot be here for this. I was never there for you, and now I am alone.
One day, we all have to find our way home.

Past

Loves the rush
of caffeine in the blood.
Speed, motion, ease.

Eyelids fluttering.
"Don't play games with me!"
But the past echoes on and on...

It stretches
its tendrils from your hometown
and pleads, "don't leave, don't leave."

Me!
My entrance is just my existence,
the piece anyone wants me to be.

From the breaking morning
to the growing night,
where lurks my inability.

Englesten: Part I

Part I: The City at the Heart of War

I think of this road as the place where dullness confronts a brilliant winter.

Staring down on the city from the top floor of the tower, I perceived only the bulk of the massive shelter no more than half a mile away. The sirens far below echoed through my empty quarters, accompanying the constant hum of electricity. It was only late afternoon, but the darkest gray had spread across the sky, a cloudy haze created by the smoke held within the city's atmosphere. The sirens screamed louder as they passed, but the shelter, like an armored hill consuming the skyline, commanded all of my attention. To think it was so close, yet ever unreachable.

A knock disrupted my thoughts and drew me back into the tower, safely behind my window. I crossed my quarters and opened the door to the sight of Nivik.

“You need to come, Dymmada.”

This I had heard a million times that week, metered always between authoritative advice and desperate begging. No amount of words, however, could alter the fact that my attendance at this workshop was by no means required at all. My usual quietness would have to be breached at last.

“You may think it so, but that is due to a needless worry. I assure you, I will be fine. So long as this meeting is not mandatory, I will not be convinced to attend it.”

“You have no desire to do what is to your own benefit, and you have no rationality concerning your own state of being,” he answered, once again with the same mixture of authority and pleading.

“Then do be so righteous as to inform the psychologists of me.”

At that he lowered his eyes to the floor, frustration marking his facial expressions. I continued to hold my shoulders high, wary of betraying the feminine weakness he seemed to believe I possessed, and at last the moment of silence ended as he raised a piercing gaze to meet my eyes.

“These affections you maintain place you in every danger of falling into their lifestyle.” Nivik's stressed emphasis made clear the disdain which he felt for the commoners to which he referred. “Unless it is your plan to remain in Englesten forever, you must let go of your past and fully become one of us.”

I twisted involuntarily to look out my window, my sight canvassing the shelter and acknowledging what was held within. I regretted this lapse of maintaining composure as I found Nivik's face taut with anger when my mind returned. I attempted to clear myself of any suppositions on Nivik's part by firmly stating that no such affections existed and that the common world had long since been lost to me. Jaw line set, Nivik departed down the corridor toward the lift.

I shut the door and leaned against it for a moment as the air filtered weakly in and out of my lungs. After several minutes, I slammed myself into my chair, closing my eyes tightly when sirens again began to penetrate the momentary silence outside.

The tower and the shelter were the only two safe buildings in Englesten, the fallen city, a metropolis covered in fallout at the heart of a massive war. The sky was lighted with a variance of grays, and armored vehicles filled with patrolmen set to kill on any indiscretion of the law continuously sped down the crumbling streets. The shells of perhaps once grand edifices gaped at the ruined city, occasionally crying a tear in the form of a wall or ceiling. Remnants of old explosives could be triggered at any time, leading to fires that were impossible to combat until they had run their course. In the streets, the bunker-resembling abodes of those citizens who preferred to live outside of the government maintained buildings could only be distinguished by the single white light of each as the night began to sink at last.

The inhabitants of Englesten knew little of the outside world, possibly as the result of being trapped within its walls and left without resources for many years prior even to my birth. The most important information that I had learned from my four years in the shelter had only made me aware that I lived in the most dangerous city of the war, located somewhere in the nation of America, and that I could never escape unless I was judged worthy of joining the elite. Becoming an elite was the only hope of living a life of freedom, of having a future with a family not tainted by this deceased city, but to achieve this, a psychologist at the shelter must select one, out of hundreds of others, to move to the tower. Though evidently powerful, each of these intimidating men never spoke to any of us as they blended into the walls in their long gray coats, occasionally hitting buttons on their hand held devices. It had been just over one year ago that I was determined as one who was potentially elite.

I could recall the day I returned to my sleeping loft alone after lunch to discover my belongings packed and neatly set upon my bed. I slowly shut the door behind me, examining the items with mild confusion. As I began to step towards my bed, a psychologist stepped forward, seeming to appear out of the very wall itself. I clutched my chest as my eyes widened in shock. He wasted no time in briefly informing me of his decision that I should move to the tower. My thoughts raced so quickly that I could barely comprehend the notion of leaving at all before he ordered me to gather my things and follow him. How I managed to move is a wonder to me; how I walked out of the place I had called home for four years and into an armored car without a backward glance and without a single goodbye to those I held most dear, I still cannot understand.

Now, as the sirens faded into the distance, I summoned my thoughts back to the warm, spaciously empty room in which I lived presently and reread the sign tacked above my monitor screen which I had written when I first moved in. In black, bold letters it read:

“Who is to determine my strength, other than my God and myself?”

I had to admit that Nivik was correctly identifying that I still clung to foolish past affections, but I could not relinquish them without losing forever the one piece of myself that was still wholly mine. In accordance with my nightly routine, I ripped a piece of paper from the pad inside my desk drawer and began to cure my flaws through writing.

* * *

I wait for you. Tossing and turning during those horrible nights when in my dreams your rejection takes a definite form. I live each day praying for your well-being as mine diminishes due to this separation. My heart falls and aches at the thought that surely my life will be lived without you. I know I am strong, and I know you will always be perfect even without me in your life. But know, my friend, that I would trade any success and any freedom to ensure that you could be happy. As the hour of my judgment nears, I grow closer to the decision of which road I will soon be forced to follow.

Sand

It started with the grains of sand that burned and burned in tortured heat.
The master artisan scooped up a handful from the beach where the children played, stomping through the sand in their games, scattering it and kicking it. The sand was warmed by the glow of the sun there out on La Playa de Vida.
The master kept the sand in his closet, isolated in a bag of soft leather, untouched and uncontaminated. The sand was left alone for years, seemingly forgotten; however, the master artisan contemplated throughout that time just what creation would be worthy enough to be formed from his precious find.
At last the day had come. The master had reached his decision. The sand was freed again, momentarily exposed to the warm and musty smell of the workshop. Then the sand was thrust into the extremely hot flames of the master's oven.
The master spun the pipe slowly as he waited for the sand to reach a temperature that would enable his desired transformation. Within the sweltering flames, the sand screamed in defiance of the necessary change. What beauty could be achieved from such destructive heat?
The glass-blowing began as the miraculous breath of the master coursed through the pipe and into the molten sand. The heat had caused the sand to unify as well as to strengthen. Spinning continuously, the sand took on a new shape as directed by the steady hands and breath of the master.
At last the sand was removed from the oven, though the constant circling of the pipe continued. As the sand cooled, it solidified beneath the crafting hands of the master artisan. The sand shimmered into clarity, no longer sand, but surely the finest crystal.
The master had designed a breath-taking vase, decorated with deep and characteristic cuts which seemed to catch the pure spark of the crystal in an impossible fashion. The master would not be able to keep such a brilliant work to himself, even though he wanted to do so greatly.
The vase sat high on it's pedestal, directly in the warming glow of the day. Everyone who saw it clutched their chests as they gasped, believing such a simplistic item could never have been so perfect while somehow so achingly flawed. Each cut contributed only greater beauty to the vase.
"What will you place into such a vase?" the people always asked the master. He scratched his chin and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly such a thing was gorgeous enough on its own. A million diamonds would only distract from the pristine clarity, and flowers would only wilt within such glory.
Walking along La Playa de Vida one day, the master again took up a handful of sand that had felt the weight of several crushing footfalls. Somehow, the seemingly dull sand sparkled within his palms. He took the sand home, thinking that perhaps some other great creation may come of it.
As the master entered his home, he stopped as usual to cherish his beloved vase. Feeling the warmth of the sand still within his hand, he felt an ironic urge to fill the crystal with the sand. He stepped back, worried that such an action had corrupted his creation, but smiled to see it fit together magically.
That night, the sand whispered to the vase, "You must have the master let me go. You might be strong and solid, but I am weak and inconsistent. If someone should knock you over, my particles would be thrown everywhere, and I could possibly be lost forever."
For a moment the vase considered the truth in this plea. Finally it answered, "You are being foolish. The master would never let anything happen to me. I will hold you together. With me, you are better and more admired than you could ever be alone."
The sand had little trust in this glistening entity. The sand doubted such an item could ever understand its own fears. "If you would merely pour me out, I could suffer less loss than if some danger might occur. I will never be happy or feel safe here. There are threats everywhere around you."
The vase did not answer. When the master woke the next morning, the vase asked a favor. The master's face paled, and he shook his head. "Master, have I not glittered here bravely and true? Have I not endured all you have asked of me? I fear my inner light shall die if you cannot do this for me."
A tear rolled down the master's cheek, and the vase felt the weight of the favor. The master took his precious creation and its contents to his workshop and oven, where the vase guarded the sand from the heat as it melted once more. A round orb of crystal filled with sand resulted from the process.
The master placed the orb back on its pedestal, knowing it had lost all possibility for other contents. The sun began to set outside, sending shades of orange, red, and pink into the open room. Incredibly, the orb glowed as the sand held the colors of the light and the crystal orb reflected them with an impossible power.