Posted: February 8, 2011 by Solitary Triumph in Fiction, Poetry

Drink in the poison of sanguine absolution, with silent protests and trembling fingers. Weary limbs hold her down like the hands of a stranger, but her mind is more awake than ever before.

The sun has been locked away in the vast expanse of dawn. It is too early to announce the morning; the only illumination present reflects off of the great pool shimmering aloft. The moon swims before her as she wipes diamonds from her eyes, and the light is painful in payment for a desperate struggle against sleep deprivation.

Every muscle in her body throbs and aches, so that she has become aware of her being as divided into planes, according to the separate, individual pains. It is a sensual kind of torture, because she knows that it could end with the sanction of her personal surrender. If she were to submit to the covers, her collective entity of burning nerves would sigh mercifully in rapture. Instead, she forces herself to stare out the open window, and to feel the bittersweet agony of sheer exhaustion.

The icy wind holds a surge of energy. Its movements are rich and full of life as they elevate her tenderness to an entirely new level, propelling the gray shutters about in hostility. Under the ebbing effulgence, the structures appear ancient and wise with their large arms outstretched – billboards and streetlamps – searching for something to give this moment significance. She could not imagine a time in which the city did not stand here, magnificent and perfectly erect. The heavens are heavy upon her apartment balcony, and the air is crisp. The night could swallow them all if it so desired.

A remnant of light emerges to violate the ice – to caress, delicately, and to leave trails of warmth in contrast to the strangulating breath of winter. Because of the freezing temperature, she is overly aware of each spot where the sun kisses, where it touches – as one would be aware of fingertips, tracing the skin. Complete serenity. It strokes the skyline, like lavender lace, and floods her room, rippling to the surface of the earth in its final culmination. The closing curtain of an extravagant performance.

Long vertical lines slice through the air. Towering powerfully without fear or objection, they devour all prospect of existence beyond their reach. These buildings are men, standing tall as particular units. Each lone figure lives in prosperity, with his head thrown back to feel the heat on his face, and his muscles flexed. They climb beyond the clouds, beyond the limitations of brotherhood; gobbling up space and the unknown with a single demand: to grab the very sun and wrench it from the sky.

There are others – more skyscrapers bursting from the earth; erupting as warriors, climbing higher, higher, to a beating battle cry – a song of victory. Consuming the land with a sense of belonging, and a right to rise there, isolated in time; as rigid as the stone which was ripped from the earth, drilled by the hands of workers with sweat on their brows, fingers quaking around the vibrations of their equipment – and massive machines, churning the foundation; an extension of those human arms, emphasizing the glory of the architects who composed this sweet melody – solid to the conviction of a single principle.

Nourished in the golden glow, she loses consciousness.


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