What I Clench

Who is to say that what I clench is not life itself, the incarnation of dreams that will never be, and the frustration of desires unfulfilled? Its beat is the song of the soul. Its every note both a step towards death, and the greatest proof of life. At its best, it is a thousand fingers of light parting the black curtains of obscurity. It makes the falling ashes of my wasted years seem as softly drifting snow and leaves me basking under the golden rays of the dawning future. It is the plow that sows meaning, and the staff that shepherds hope. It is the honeyed psalms of laughter that pierce the dreary veil of perdition and the dew of selflessness that forms on the tip of purpose, and collects in crystalline pools of sincerity. At its worst, it is the shadows that cling to judgment, and the pestilence that flows through the sewers of mediocrity. It is the embodiment of hypocrisy. It is to know hatred’s loving embrace, to obey the rules of lawlessness, and to see maliciousness behind all acts of kindness. It is dipping a rag in bloody water to wash a white gown. It is passion’s breathe flowing through the leafy foliage of avarice, or an essay of love punctuated with broken promises. It has been corrupted with reason and poisoned by complacency. It will bring white and black to grey, and grey to red, the color of my shame. It heaves an ocean of suffering onto the shores of my tranquility. It is cankerous apathy meandering through the gully of accomplishment, where it devours the roots of my perseverance, and calls me to slumber in shady brothels of desolation. It weaves pretense through the fabric of my youth, and propagates my faith with rationalizations. It is the light in which the cross has hidden, and the guillotine’s blade crashing down upon my innocence. It beats against the bars of bone that confine it. One day it will exhaust itself and beat no more. When that day comes, what is red will once again fade to grey; and when the shame finally ceases to flow, the ashes that seem as snow will come to rest upon my grave, masking the rotting ruins of my temple in false purity. The fingers of light will curl into a fist and the black curtains of obscurity will close forever.