A Blanket of Flesh

For so long I have sat
in this broken chair,
wood splintered
from the troublesome weight
of such burdens I hold
deep within my chest.

The sheer frailty of the chair’s legs
haunts me,
each moment drags on
and on;
I fear its last days of strength
have passed by
and all I shall be left with
is kindling for the fire.

My numb limbs will be
thawed in time
by the blaze inside my heart still
flickering.

I imagine I will sit here,
staring
into the embers to find a meaning
as to why my blood runs
cold,
but is warmed by the flesh
I wear as my torn blanket.

Surrounded by walls of shedding
plaster and paint
peeling shreds of my past off
this sanctuary.
                  
I motion towards the open window and gasp
at the image of the Raven
quoting “never more”.

Never more will I write on the page
if this creature is not removed from my chamber;
sent back to its perch
upon the branches of a far off forest
I know nothing of.

The fire is losing its breath
now I feed
its thirst for memories to consume,
carefully dropping my deepest
thoughts into its mouth,
offering pieces of my mind to devour.

All the years of composition,
sleepless nights
tolling on my body;
my arthritic hands,
wrinkled forehead from blistering thoughts,
lips coarse
as concrete from dehydration,
eyes
black as the raven,
and my purpose
to ignite the words of my life,
lost to the weakness I held
inside for so long.