blinding reflections of jet light
off an obsidian cliff
silhuoette my emaciated form
dripping rivulets of blood
from my nailed wrists
i stand
jailed on a black ledge
measurelessly high
measurelessly low
this is my view:
sun
horizon
haze
now, a black mist begins to eclipse the sun
the air is opaquing, painting itself
gashes of yellow
rip through the darkness
orange and vermillion tendrils
thrash like seaweed in a riptide
lightning traced in crimson
leap from land to sky
the grey-blue land and the steel-blue sky
are annihilated
hideously beautiful
a thousand serpents'
flickering tongues
slowly turning my head
slowly watching ripples pulse outward
in ridges of oil paint
the storm is alive
i could touch it
shape it
but my hands -
and so it is
tentacled and voracious
limitless and approaching
i stare into the tempest's black heart
as the storm solidifies
i cannot breathe anymore
the storm is varnished
i cannot breathe anymore
the storm is hung
what do the nails support now?
my view is a painting
sold at an auction for three dollars
hidden in an attic
my body is a pair of dismembered hands
slowly rotting away
slowly teetering back and forth
like tongueless wind chimes