Pardon Me While I Burst

I stand in line for pardon, begging to be forgiven for past sins. As I meekly approach the hour of judgement, at the slow pace of twenty-five to life, I wonder what the executioner has in store for me. If there was a witch in the middle of the woods, who could tell me how it ends, would I seek her out?

My friends and I explored the woods many days in my youth, as darkness creeped into the sky. We never found her cabin, but I found some peace of mind. In the stillness on the trails, I gently winded through what seemed like endless thoughts. Past swamps, I wondered if I would ever be a man I was hoping to be?

Would I settle down or chase beatnik Kerouac dreams? My soul is wandering and old. It is not destined for any one location, but a sailor sojourning through the sea. As I laid my head down at night, I found the oceans of the depths of my mind. Ever expanding horizons to conquer. From land, to sky, I traveled across synapses hoping to find a place to call home.

To sleep perchance to dream. I am recycling lines. Both others and mine. My soul appropriates as it grows ever older, wandering and wondering if it will ever find a home. When walking through the stillness wasn’t working, I found myself pulling shoes from feet, to walk barefoot. I needed to feel. Anything. Even the pain of thorn in the balls of your feet is something to keep you grounded. Keep you present. To keep you from brambling through the thickets of your brain.

I ask the Good Lord to wash my feet. I ask for judgement, but demand to be free. I am not looking for God, I am looking for a witch in the woods to tell me my lot in life. To cast bones and rattle chains. To show me my colored strand in the fabric of this place. To show me where the shears will decide my fate.

I stand in line because I see others doing so. Asking for penance is not my style. I am fire and brimstone. A heretic of the modern worlds. As they preach for peace, I can be found like the snake in the Garden of Eden.

“Let it burn” I hiss.

Let it burn. I am not of this world. To me, they are the aliens. Abject in thoughts. Minds sickened, subconscious drunk on reality tv.

“Let it burn” I begin to chat. “Burn it to the ground.” 

I miss the days searching the woods. Before technological chains kept us inside. I miss the Kerouac dreams I keep recycling when I write.

A longing for a cup of coffee and wayward skies.

I turn the volume on the music up, little by little. I will drown my thoughts tonight. I don’t want to explore tonight lest I drown. In thoughts of lighting this world on fire and laughing as it burns down. I am no longer gently winding, the waters are choppy and I begin to move faster and faster.

Faster.

FASTER.

At a frenetic pace, I am crashing through the woods. Wildlife startled, I am searching for the witch.

“When will I be free of this mind!” I scream.

Laughter, soft and sinister. I am past the caveats and closer to danger.

“WHEN WILL I BE FREE OF THIS LIFE?” I bellow!

Somebody sedates me. I sip the rotgut and begin to slow my pace. I sip the fire water and slowly I fill fine. I am pulled from the woods, given proper shower and shave. Someone’s hand on my back, I am gently moved forward. I stare with dead eyes, asking to be saved.

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