Image RS Wing

  He swung, side to side, much like a timeless pendulum, as the maple branch creaked from the noose that now gripped him. With his head tilted and the complexion of death purple’s, the words, ‘fuck the world’  were visibly scrawled on his forehead, highlighted in red ink marker.

  The raccoons scurried as the dawn broke through the mornings slit headlong into the abyss of deaths grip. The stench of death hung in the balmy October air unregulated as an ominous face of defeat, disgust, all in distrust….all memories of a tormented soul mirrored within these dead eyes, baring no disguise.

  Mother, Ingeborg, cried as she dragged herself to him…broken, crippled and a need to cradle her first born. His wrists and inner forearms bore rope burns, the sign of possible last minute regret of self demise. I can only imagine his last breath as he desperately tried to wriggle out of his self imposed fate, almost feeling the horrid rope burns on my own naked flesh.

  Cold dead calm eyes of distant defeat and delirium possessed his heather flesh around stiffened bones, wriggled joints and grounded to nothingness here on earth. The antagonists drink from the temples chalice. Boundless that no boundless is all must realize the point, must that no reality is a sacrificial point back….tis sacrificial impatience.

  On that fateful Sunday morning, Ingeborg dragged herself to the kitchen, for her first pot of coffee. As the pot was brewing, she sat in her morning chair, near the picture window, ready to cast open the blinds, as to let the mornings sun soothe her lovely spirits. When she drew the blinds, she was aghast at what she bore witness to. Her eldest son, Buzzy, had hanged himself from a maple tree, outside the small yard they shared.

  That’s when all the nightmares re-emerged.

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