Journal No. 4

A piece in a series of journals, my mind poured out on paper.

Journal #4

A poem by Alejandro Manuel Espinoza

 

I have witnessed the flesh before my very own stained hands,

Bearing this tarot card of inevitable retribution and jest of my fear,

Under a haze of socialism,

 

I pry at ignorance, begging for its spill,

Because deep in my fragile heart was the knowledge

Of rounding closure one more time.

 

Closure shall never come,

And the flicker of pure thought knows that such a prophecy is glory in heaven,

A golden perpetuated empyrean.

 

Much talk of harlequins spin in my head.

There are some crimes whos only punishment

Is the void of silence.

I have witnessed the flesh inside the vault I kept it in for so long. There is no flesh,

Not a particle speckled with human error,

Yet in its place lies the smallest prism,

The cornerstone of evanesced divinity.

 

I wasn’t rooted by a man,

A beast

Nor a god

On the passing of yet another meaningless passage of time.

Temporarily, the life that was mine alone to command succumbed to unvarnished Radiance.

 

Radiate carelessness.

Radiate the overflowing of an empty cup.

 

The prism reflects only black, the absence of all spiritual color.

Tiny jokers spilling from my hands.

Freeze my blood, Harlequin.

But upon return to my monogamy I brew nothing except the shadow of the words Bouncing across the walls of my skull days and days ago.

 

I will be breached, and human error demands I dwell upon the unholy matron of grief.     

 

Author's Note

A piece in a series of journals.