Same Old Metamorphosis, etc.
By
Will H. Blackwell, Jr.
Same Old Metamorphosis
This dim hall-of-mirrors is suddenly moving. Lengthening,
accelerating, it abandons opacity—gaining a strange, turbulent
translucence. Faces embedded in the shadowy glass are freed--
spinning around the perimeter as if magnetized. I have seen this
swirl of images before! As I attempt to peer ahead, I realize I am
tunneling through side-screens of disturbingly familiar, taloned
ghosts—grasping at me. If their claws were real, I would surely
be dead. Failing in their intent, these apparitions slip aside,
vanishing like the vaporous eidolons they have become. Train-like
I enter a kaleidoscopic yet structuring chaos, reforming, settling.
The ethereal conveyor slows into an oddly recognizable unknown.
A million memories seek to travel with me, each similar yet
anxious passage. But I need endure the merciful curse of
retaining only a few—these, most vile, I can never rescind,
regardless of the lifetime I am in. I must presently awaken to these
persistent, unwanted recollections once again. By the end of each
determined iteration, I am thus, regrettably, never fully dead. I will
forever know the depth of pain I caused you. I can’t escape my ever
nearly fatal sin. I am doomed to live this lonely metaphor again,
and again, through many lifespans—through each paltry but
lingering existence. Mine is hence the paradox of a linear
life-cycle that never completely ends—a personal, segmented
eternity—placed repetitiously, on public display, at every
protracted station along the way. And now, again, a different
identical sun has already begun to scorch the fresh straw
I’m made of, hoisting, posting me in searing shame, leaving
me effectively pilloried for all, cruelly, to behold. I am
powerless to stop my sordid story being retold. I am thus
destined always to be known, disdained—despised—by all
who do not yet know me. I am, soon again, to be the false
bones, the withered but unwittingly tenacious remains of an
ancient, denigrated scarecrow. Being left now, once more, to
thin slowly in an abruptly chilling wind, I must again wait many
years before I can be reborn—precisely as I am. There is no
terminus, no endpoint, no fitted coffin waiting in which
I may, at last, calmly lie—or perhaps, by some cryptic
and entirely unpredicted bit of luck, finally die.
Dreaming Reality
In dreams, we somehow tell ourselves that truth
which we, in daylight, can never abide.
In conscious night, we ban unwanted proof
with protective whiskey by our side.
I well recall the day when we first met.
Our eyes reached each other like a touch.
Soon, we made a lifetime bet—not to
wed, but join much the same as such.
The years have worn our common sentience thin.
False relations became reality.
Heedless, we indulged our separate sins,
displacing love, fondness, and fealty.
Shall I now provide the final sleep?—freed
from candid dreams that make us weep.
Will H. Blackwell Jr. is a retired professor (botany) living presently in Columbia, South Carolina. His poems have appeared in Black Petals, Blue Unicorn, Disturbed Digest, Illumen, Raven Cage Zine, Slant, Star*Line, The Fifth Di…, and The Sirens Call.
By
Will H. Blackwell, Jr.
Same Old Metamorphosis
This dim hall-of-mirrors is suddenly moving. Lengthening,
accelerating, it abandons opacity—gaining a strange, turbulent
translucence. Faces embedded in the shadowy glass are freed--
spinning around the perimeter as if magnetized. I have seen this
swirl of images before! As I attempt to peer ahead, I realize I am
tunneling through side-screens of disturbingly familiar, taloned
ghosts—grasping at me. If their claws were real, I would surely
be dead. Failing in their intent, these apparitions slip aside,
vanishing like the vaporous eidolons they have become. Train-like
I enter a kaleidoscopic yet structuring chaos, reforming, settling.
The ethereal conveyor slows into an oddly recognizable unknown.
A million memories seek to travel with me, each similar yet
anxious passage. But I need endure the merciful curse of
retaining only a few—these, most vile, I can never rescind,
regardless of the lifetime I am in. I must presently awaken to these
persistent, unwanted recollections once again. By the end of each
determined iteration, I am thus, regrettably, never fully dead. I will
forever know the depth of pain I caused you. I can’t escape my ever
nearly fatal sin. I am doomed to live this lonely metaphor again,
and again, through many lifespans—through each paltry but
lingering existence. Mine is hence the paradox of a linear
life-cycle that never completely ends—a personal, segmented
eternity—placed repetitiously, on public display, at every
protracted station along the way. And now, again, a different
identical sun has already begun to scorch the fresh straw
I’m made of, hoisting, posting me in searing shame, leaving
me effectively pilloried for all, cruelly, to behold. I am
powerless to stop my sordid story being retold. I am thus
destined always to be known, disdained—despised—by all
who do not yet know me. I am, soon again, to be the false
bones, the withered but unwittingly tenacious remains of an
ancient, denigrated scarecrow. Being left now, once more, to
thin slowly in an abruptly chilling wind, I must again wait many
years before I can be reborn—precisely as I am. There is no
terminus, no endpoint, no fitted coffin waiting in which
I may, at last, calmly lie—or perhaps, by some cryptic
and entirely unpredicted bit of luck, finally die.
Dreaming Reality
In dreams, we somehow tell ourselves that truth
which we, in daylight, can never abide.
In conscious night, we ban unwanted proof
with protective whiskey by our side.
I well recall the day when we first met.
Our eyes reached each other like a touch.
Soon, we made a lifetime bet—not to
wed, but join much the same as such.
The years have worn our common sentience thin.
False relations became reality.
Heedless, we indulged our separate sins,
displacing love, fondness, and fealty.
Shall I now provide the final sleep?—freed
from candid dreams that make us weep.
Will H. Blackwell Jr. is a retired professor (botany) living presently in Columbia, South Carolina. His poems have appeared in Black Petals, Blue Unicorn, Disturbed Digest, Illumen, Raven Cage Zine, Slant, Star*Line, The Fifth Di…, and The Sirens Call.
