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I am Valium, of
the second Unit,
Third level, zero zero three of Terra One.
I sit and
stare at the blank, white wall.
They are correcting my mental
deviation.
And yet, even as the white light gently washes my
Cerebral
Cortex, I can still hear the steady plod of
The great beast’s feet and
the jingle of the
Metalled straps.
I look inside myself again, but find
nothing to
Match my dreams.
My memory fails the images.
Nothing gives
substance or meaning to my strange
Hallucinations, if that is what they
are.
Something!... of ineffable grace, weightlessness and
Beauty soars
into the unpolluted air of my mind and
Sings a song of such sweet pain that
I feel a
Physical stab to my heart.
What can it be?
‘A
darkling thrush in blast-beruffled plume’.
What strange words and
yet what ecstatic sounds!
The great beasts plod on, steaming at their
sides,
Powerful, but gentle beasts, singular, magnificent
Beasts with
heavy, hairy feet.
More words come to haunt my brain,
‘Hair
soft-lifted by the winnowing wind’.
How beautiful the sounds, even
without meaning.
What is wind?
Perhaps they are from some long banned
videotape?
I know not.
They said I should not have these
thoughts;
Counter productive and socially regressive they
said,
Adding that a period of correction would
Cleanse my brain.
It
has not.
Somehow I feel that it never will.
These things, images, sounds,
must have some
Purpose that I know not of.
A perfume now assails my nose,
pungent in its
Strength, but not unpleasant.
More disconnected words,
bread, fresh,
The smell is warm and comforting as of a...
Why does
kitchen spring to mind?
What is kitchen?
What is
bread?
I know not these things and yet regret their
Passing, if
passed they are and not prophetic be.
I am soft-sift with many thoughts
fallen from the
Outer space of another time and another place.
They have
squeezed themselves into the capsule of
My being, without relation to the
cold world of
Terra One and I weep that I have not the wit to
Make them
sense.
What means now the smell of burning flesh that
Waters thus the
palate of my mouth and conjures
Tastes that tease the tendrils of a memory
aeons gone?
Soft caresses of a summer breeze would seem to
Mean so
much yet goes for naught.
There is no summer in my world, no
breeze nor
Soft caress.
We, they say, are
perfection reached.
Processed with care from genesis to re-cycle
time.
Perhaps there lies a fault in me?
A computer error in my genetic
genesis?
I know not.
I know only that the things I now hear, see
and
Smell have a quality and joy I tremble to imagine.
True perfection
is, perhaps, a common thing we
Tread beneath our feet or carelessly destroy
in
Searching for that very virtue.
Perhaps these things existed and we
buried them
Behind white walls or beneath vain-glorious
Monuments to
progress and our own greed.
If so...wither now? |
