Flight of the Dreamer

Flight of the Dreamer
Amber stems of grass whistle in darkening wind
A black-clad traveler stumbles irresponsibly
Over stray brown rocks littering haphazard path
Zephyr cannot cool the sweat on his furrowed brow
Nor tear the brackish bottle from his clenched fingertips
He tilts his head back, liquid wets his palate
Exposing a pale neck with translucent yellow finish
Coughing suddenly, he bows as if to worship gods of old;
And sacrifices his liver, and other unnecessary organs
No need for such baggage; best to keep the insides clear.
A hacking disturbs the peace of the setting glen,
A rabbit darts into its burrow, refuge in the solacing dirt.
He treks onward, littering the bottle near rabbit home
His eyes stone and just as cold, mouth grim and set.
He stumbles- hands raw clutch the dirt on which fell,
Fingertips curse their attachment to clumsy hands.
Upward he stumbles once more, an inebriated Jesus-
His destination glittering in the cruel twilight,
Amber waves of long dying grass thinning to rocks alone.

He nearly trips once more, foot catching on long coat-
A gift from lost love sacrificed, reprimanded, trashed.
Ripping it off, arms jerking and mouth clenched
A barely repressed scream, the wind takes the offering,
Lifting it to the heavens, toward Peter’s highest gates,
Unaccepted and unworthy, it falls and tangles in a cluster
Of graying bushes like the black tangles of his heart.
Left only in the black suit jacket worn that hopeful morn,
Lapels stained with booze and unemployment oils.
He has the phone number of the slack-eyed secretary
With her flexible legs, black stockings, and red stilettos,
But even the thought of cupping her curves-
Nothing.

At the edge of the precipice, he barely looks down,
But the rocks whisper- Will he jump and regret?
Will we break him as he is already broken?
The man realizes where he is, blinks back a reaction-
Looks at the craggy crevasse and morbidly imagines-
Two hundred feet below, broken and bleeding,
Wearing his clothes, his face, his father’s watch,
And his shining, sparkling, meaningless wedding band.
Staring.

He lowers his head, black strands tickling his neck,
He soaks up the entirety of his decision, wondering-
Will it really be worth all the pain of those left behind?
Is he so selfish to let them suffer without his frown,
Instead of suffering himself with frown perpetual?
A burst of wind from behind forces him to stumble,
Still drunk, slow, pause button quickly tapped once,
He lingers on the precipice, balancing his weight
As gray eyes, bloodshot with cheap whiskey widen-
Before final decision can be made, he lies at the bottom,
Between rocky peaks as laughing wind tickles dead skin.
In his last moment he had only time to damn the wind.
Damn himself; his foolishness and unnecessary angst,
Damn it all.

As with all great follies, realization of the mistake comes-
But only when one is already broken in mind and body.
And staring.  Staring upward, to heaven never reached,
To the memory of heaven surrendered in anger,
And to the realization that heaven will never be regained.
So if ever falls from great heights may be considered,
Remember only that the hell on earth does not compare
To the furnace forest below manned by Cerberus,
And the torture induced there with mustached grin.
Metaphorical hell is but a pinch to the Iron Maiden
Of the torturous, true metaphysical Hell the dead do go.
There the suicides lay at the bottom of respective cliffs,
Staring.