Fog

He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at the ceiling
before he was taken on his bizarre journey.
The ultimate freakout
from an uncertain reality.

The music turned to wallpaper
epiphanies hidden beneath the meanings of song lyrics
bending with guitar solos
deciphering the purpose
of cleaning carpets
working the valet parking lots
at the race track,
and idiotic decisions
resulting in solitude.

Mr. Miniver Cheevy.
So full of shit
so transparent to himself
the truth unavoidable
with no one around to bullshit.
Not he?
Then who?
was he to be
when he returned,
if he returned
from outer space?

Inner space
in a space
that no one could reach him

his isolation
a drug
he needed but did not want.

Perhaps there was no going back,
and why should he?

Who was to benefit from his return
what had he to offer
the world
to himself?

Ready to go
but not ready to be taken
getting too heavy.

Feeling too light,
too good to let go
for if he let go,
no telling where he’d be taken.

Impossible to feel this good and
remain alive.

Floating above it all
as static electricity
seeing from beyond but
unable to express any of it
verbally.

The purples
the lavenders
the light blues
hues
condensed within
a fog,

no hands
no face
no space between
like gases without
solids to fill.

These gentle voices
booming
deep and soothing
from antennae
of a different
frequency

Do
Make
Say
Think

but most of all

DO.

The good times weren’t over
only different.
He didn’t have to be life’s punching bag
if he didn’t want to be.

Stick to his guns
and the path would still be the path
if he chose to leave the path
for out was still in
and the spiral had always been in control.

He wanted to return
to feel naked skin
and freezing rain.

He wanted to return
to clear his family name.

He wanted to return
but he didn’t know how
else to gain control
besides
relinquishing the grips
on the ever maddening madness
he was clinging to.

~Edward Austin Robertson

Tags: Edward Austin Robertson