Life Inside A Mercurial Mind

With quavering breath, you gently lift the dutch wood door that carries the one who sleeps inside, the one who just kissed yesterday, on her pallid cheek, the one who understood your normal strangeness, the chaos and cobwebs of your tangled mind, those delphian orbs and Seraphims that whisper into empty space, incarcerated by Life's splintered cross. And gone now, be the only one who loved you, sheltered you from life's cruel intentions, a maternal love bearing- no exceptions nor limits. Who will care for me now, you ask your self, although- your answer is lost in the question. You really shouldn't have come today, 'The internment too much to grasp, said the institutions patient report. You dream at night, the voices are louder than the whispers you hear when the sun can be seen. I miss you, son, murmurs of a far-away voice, as you lay down your tarry in quiet confusion, staring up at the crusted ceiling from your strapped-down supine position, studying...the plaster varicose veins that stretch across the ochre ceiling, and the cracks, Oh, the serpentine cracks- that suddenly remind you of road-maps and boundries of memories and places traveled in time- for a moment in time and again, you are somewhere else, far away. Affixing on shadows, you present queer expression from distorted grey images crossing your eyes, harboring deep within your brain, pricking you by its stretched nerve-endings like a seamstresses darning needle; And the needle jogs a clarion flash as you segway to another time and place and place, where your mum is cooking broiled scrod in her Bean Street, Boston kitchenette watching the fluttering stove flames, sparkle in blue and orange; What are you doing, mummy, you ask? Mummy sees her little boy has a splinter, and you know you can't keep it, so mummy will take it. She takes the metal tongs, pinches the needle at its head, says, 'mummy would never hurt you'; now I need to see that finger and pull that nasty splinter, while you pray to the Archangel Raphael, to give you courage, ..you pray, now, son. Oh! Mummy, it burns! It burns! So hot...hot as a matchstick tip, [one just freshly struck so affectingly that his tongue could taste the smoking sulfur with Mummy's every stroke, and success always ended with a hug, a kiss, and some key lime pie. Who will know where the needles are, you try tapping your mind's earlier years. NO-ONE! - says the Modigliani- hanging on the pale pea green wall, a stunning sleek woman, staring like stone with her white empty sockets... darting. She's with the sleeping now where all the good mummy's go, and thats how love in Death must be beyond the pine, outside the crypt... as you attempt to exist within the space that narrows so fast and disturbing, upon the harboring of Fear within you. Copyright © MMXVII- Frank James Ryan, Jr. All rights reserved