I fell ten thousand meters one miserable day,
a strange dark encrusted land unfolded on the way.
A lone little hovel set upon "Gilligan's" lost isle
surrounded by thick sticky dark mud and pea grey fog.
Looking into a dreamy light filled window,
a strange sadness enshrouded my soul.
Looking to the crack between a tender door,
seeing a fraction of what I possessed before.
Memories flooded into consciousness,
overflowing I wept with tearless madness.
Questions formed in my dreary little mind
like long drifting shadows on a crisp wintery day:
Who am I?
Why am I alive on this grey day?
Kneeling into the ground grappling for a meager breath.
Do I walk upright across this cursed ground
Or perhaps I amble Ape-like instead?
are they the only emotives my heart has to spare?
Tomorrow is a big black hole,
void and dark, just like my soul,
the want of death is the only light I've got to bare.
I once dreamed a dreamy little light.
Danced with it, like a fairy prince,
at the top of a silvery well,
but consigned to hell I am,
this damn darkness is my only friend.
Ashes to Ashes,
Dust to Dust,
cursed are these grounds I have landed upon.
---William James, December 25, 1995
If you haven't already, check out Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words.