diary of the damned

father forgive me, he cannot the devil whispers. because a blotch, a hiccup, a belch, a fart told you not to ever do that! shouted the old man down the street with a pink hat, carrying a cane he uses to beat a child of lilith because he played one too many games. a circle, a wandering in the desert, a looking back when god said not to. turned to a pillar of salt, an angel admonishes to look up but all earthly beings do is trudge on sand. where the waves topple down castles unable to take the blows to mighty leviathan thrashing when the wrath of pink hats thrown in the sea begin to chock up passage ways. senile dude, muttering to himself, going about business that never changes when all the sea does is change when the moon wanes, when the tide tries to recollect memories buried too deep. in the sand, the kids try to dig up sunken treasures hidden away. they're all grown up now with wrinkled faces trying to find the best jewels when a journey unravels. oh remember this! exclaims, bubbles, joyous seasons in the air - with a first kiss, a first chocolate cake, a first anything. except the bad kinds when guilt begins to gnaw at bones still trying to feel their way about shifting tides. there, there, the root is stuck in between concrete and water slushing about, gurgling, expunging all those records feels like a catharsis, flat line then a shooting star floats out from leviathan's gaping mouth. what happened? the muses of hands tugging rocks about to sink further into the tide, with seasons coming and going back as the moon resurfaces. these collected memories begin to light up plain jane now beaming. i remember. the first stone cast, the first cut made, the bones leak out marrow. it's all in the soup with spices, ginger, fishes, always add more of the latter. they're good for the heart. for innocence turned to a tiger's roar, a spirit shifts about in a heart in turmoil. gives no rest. when a blocked out page gets a no, i remember your transgression, the heavenly host said. what! but what about that thing called grace? and then the first laugh became sour, the first cut remembered, the continued act as fact. hey what about ... ... mumbled children gone old, wrinkled, trying to dig out from photo albums no longer. a coarse grunt, a dismissive demeanor, a faint shrug. it's whatever. it's whatever. so be it when lanes are carved, lanes are forged, choices set in footprints toiled, walked, ran through deserts in an oasis. a heart of plenty, a flesh shriveled when inside out, upside down really made that serpent monster get so very mad.