Journey of the Mind | Stories & Poems

Insults slice like cleavers carving into goose bumped flesh. Pieces fall in a soup du jour served nightly at the mess. Wounds treated with a smile, tears steeped in laughter. An auto-cannibalistic appetite an emaciated character. The stench assails the nostrils pretend not to care. Dreams and aspirations evaporate in the chilly air.

Model citizens they keep to themselves, like closed books on dusty and solitary shelves. I read Within their volumes of poverty and despair. A pauper’s dogma preached with a rich man’s flair. Heirs to the ghetto, they’re wide eyed and full of need. Nearly invisible when consumed by greed.  Eight hours a day I heard the raucous melody play a singular note plunked in rapid succession an arpeggio of lies and fabrication.  Downcast sweaty faces blistered hands clapping with dimwitted admiration, a pathetic charade, but one  of their own creation. The shrills of indignity echoed in my head, Placid silhouettes reflections of the dead. A solemn testament to a  downward progression inequity masquerading in  a history’s regression.  I watched as a thick haze blazed inside an angry red dawn. Tick tock, tick tock  another night gone. ailments like chains tethered to their beds impatient they listen a sinking feeling of dread. The maestro cue...

As the cab came to a stop, she hesitantly looked out the window. The rain was coming down in sheets, and she had left her umbrella at the office. She dreaded what others might think of her if they were to see her so disheveled. The man sitting next to her ran to her side of the cab and opened the door, holding out his coat as an umbrella. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” He stared at her blankly, “Think what you will, but right now I’m the best thing you got against this rain.” She let out a tired sigh, and got underneath the jacket. Reaching the other side of the street they took shelter beneath a storefront awning. “You are certifiably insane! You’re soaked from head to toe!” “I know aint it great,” flashing her a toothy grin. She shot him a bewildered look through pale blue eyes that nearly matched the gray sky above. “Let’s grab a bite to eat. I know this great little place just around the corner,” pointing as he spoke. “I don’t even know who you are, or even your name...

The spoils of heaven, kept safe in a soulless shell. Heaven's toil forever churning in a cyclic hell. A longing for perfection elusive and hard to find, out of frustration heaven becomes blind. Utopia is not borne on the wings of millennia, or even of days. But on moments so fleeting they burst, shimmer, and then fade. The measure of heaven is not in eternity, but in the burning of seconds that smolder in time. Lightning that flashes along the periphery. Delicate streaks so seldom seen, yet in their wake the thunder rumbles and rings. A subtle cacophony that disrupts our days, and a gentle discord that haunts our nights. It's a sincere smile, a heartfelt laugh, or a solemn tear drifting towards an empathetic ear. Within these unexpected glances therein Nirvana lies, lightning in a bottle if only we open our eyes.