Greydusk

I am an artist of sound and images trapped on this mortal coil.Sometimes,if I behave myself,they let me listen to the recorded sounds of the universe expanding.On a transistor radio no bigger than the size of a pea I balance delicately with my opened left hand, escaping through the visual world of sound until the images stain my eyes, everything becomes white,I fade into a blinded sleep.Only than am I returned to my burnt darkened room chained near a soiled mattress on the floor, stripped of my coverings, a sacrifice to a corruption called police.I morph into the shape of a lion than into a lamb than my shape turns to human again.I am the art,the concubine,time has guided me as I am buried in time's sand.When I awaken my chest a coffer of dust the repetition of the cycle fills me with dread,I frantically on hands and knees search for an escape, a door in the floor to guide me to a new beginning or a welcomed end.Cursed I realize this has happened before and will happen again,and again,and again.A human hunted by sirens of the order of the swine their only wish to make a trophy of my head.Am I there,am I here,is that me?A shell of an effigy of who I used to be, no longer alive but still not free.

Greydusk

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