Everlong

Everlong

The salutary strings trickle down and beckon me inside. Whether or not I accept, they open the door, and the next 7 chords knock me into their dream. Suddenly I'm somewhere nowhere, and everything touches me from faraway. I'm not sad anymore, not angry, not lustful, but I'm feeling a rush and a warmth, and I can't name it. I feel the need to name it, to distinguish something in this dream, but everything is perfectly abstract and just the right distance away from communicable, so I decide to let the unspeakable understanding cover me as a blanket does. It begins its story. I listen, but all I hear is that feeling that I can't name. I know I can feel the background of the music, I can feel the canvas upon which the musician struck his masterpiece. This one is black with rosy accents, hazy around the edges. The painting itself says nothing of its canvas, but I felt it this time. I heard it constantly while the guitars and drums did their dance before my eyes. That drug sound made beautiful movements before my eyes and genuinely caressed my heart, at which point I felt that rushing, nameless feeling swell up and sting. Then things began to shift. The canvas I had felt started to transform and turn, globally, and the music colors echoed from behind what I was now experiencing. I all but saw and felt, I understood, that behind every canvas is a window, and behind every window is a silhouette, mouthing words that don't match any lyric or poem or rhetoric. The silhouette was sitting, staring at me, anxiously trying to communicate, but both the lack of light and the abundance of music masked its intentions. The window thickens and goes away, replaced by the vaguely beautiful once more. The honest seductress wasn't as effective, but she kept trying to soothe my worry. She promised me a floating feeling, and I gave up and let her ride me atop a cloud. The rhythm kept us high for a verse or so, but then electricity stuck me back down through my spinal cord and I was face to face with the faceless face once more. It was standing now, desperately trying to get something through to me. I pounded on the window, and for the first time ever I was hopeless and just as hopeful about it; it joined me, not in an attempt to escape, but out of a need to confess.
All at once, the music, the painting, the silhouette, all that was here and all that I had felt and understood yet not seen, all of it was sucked into the vacuum that I was, and quietly it germinated. The guitar built itself skyward and swiftly surpassed its destination and took everything with it and climatically exploded out of every pore on my skin, glittering like mud all around me. These planets of snare and crash and hum and riff orbited my eyes and eventually I met once more that silhouette, except this time I understood that it was not a silhouette, but an eclipsed truth, a belief turned black as per the brightness of the art behind it. It continued to mouth words to me even after the music fell asleep and I woke up with my eyes closed.

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

You have some really good stuff here. As a "poem," however, you really need to break the lines up and not write them in paragraph form. The lack of form really disrupts the content and the focus of the reader.

[CookeCody]

I was going for more of a dream recounting here and it all came to me pretty fluid, hence why I didn't break it up at all. But you're right on that