She walked alone. Always.
Along the path
in that abandoned place
where emptiness is codified…
She was a scattering of herself
thoughts pulled up by their roots
weeded out of planters and windowboxes
tossed to the curb, heedlessly discarded
with all the rest of yesterday’s garbage.
The endless walks, the incessant dialogue
with herself – she argued two sides of
every point, pointlessly – so that every
conclusion was anything but…
Her minds (for her name was Legion
and she had many) a fisherman’s net
indiscriminately hauling whatever caught
in it. Her brainwave patterns chittering in
the perched falconry of ellipses, her body
a cultivated garden where dandelion seeds
bred freedom into the manicured cover of
Chaos’ green grounding…
Where monuments spoke in glints of dappled light, where the wind cries out the name of the lonely through chinks of crumbling basalt and limestone. Under the shadow of ruins, she picked wildflowers as flies hummed to the music of her footsteps. When the mood struck it, the sky occasionally kneeled down to kiss her furrowing brow, relaxing her, making her face feel as smooth and cool as marble.
The ellipses and circles she traversed inside the garden’s labyrinth bore the scars where Heaven had clashed with Hades leaving intricate patterns in the medallions carved deep into the earth’s bed. It was the alphabet of some immemorial tongue, lost to her, she would trace the symbols over and over with the tip of her forefingers; the whole of it was only fully viewable from high above, as though meant only to be seen by gyring falcons, falling angels, or those telescopic-eyed sentries standing guard at Heaven’s gate…
Still, as her feet traced those strange walkways she felt ideas being etched and colored like stained-glassed panes in a cathedral of knowledge, vitrine illusions silkscreened her eyes… Mosaics of moments recollected, then shattered and pieced together in her kaleidoscope mind. Thoughts peeked beneath the pleats of Time’s skirts like the Catholic schoolboys did when she would flirt with them. Showing her… she was nobody’s daughter. They mostly lied to her, she long since decided. It was easier to believe.
She’d shutter her eyes’ projector and rewind the reel, imagining herself occupied as a series of vaulted terraces on a giant ziggurat overlooking the Euphrates, being fed ancient rivers in the desert hauled through the air one loving bucketful at a time with Archimedes Screw-like water engines by perspiring men, bare-chested and proud, honored to be slaving away for her cultivation, tilling her hollow earth. A mirage made real through the labor of love.
She saw her reflection in the garden pond, glittering like koi, as her resolution swam upstream. Memory pressed wantonly between her thighs. Vaulting over mists, crossing synapses like bridges, her doubts and denials emerged dragon-like and protective, guarding the jewel of her falling water, but the marred conception of purity opened her third eye wide, revealing the inception tree: Reality – like fingerprints on the cookie jar- accused, then identified her sad truth.
Closed Captioned For The Thinking Impaired 