This Cold Unholy Basement
Tell us how thrilling it must be having the world stamped upon
one's back? Each letter carrying the uniqueness and weight of
continents. The space in between filled with every villainous act
known to man; while the over-lords of malice are riotous in
Pale, impaled upon the brutal circumstances of our estates, we
seldom stand, still, our bodies are bowed in anticipation of the
great release, into the embrace of the mystic void, where relief
is no longer colored by mortal precepts.
Our eyes are open from within. We see the multitudes cower, then
rage in fear and ignorance as we walk towards the shining road
of creation, displaying badges of tribulation, the results of a
people�s mood; not, a movement of the people.
Here we are, bound in states of misery and Hope, induced as
grains of bleeding sand, their vibrancy the shape of renewed
consciousness, limitless in scope and nobility.
Wallowing here, our bodies and souls twisted like a knotty walking
stick, challenging this cold Unholy basement as a besieged flock,
knowing we have reaped the world's bitter harvest, its lack of
decorum, displayed-forever-more?-in the wearing of uniforms
that blot-out the soul�s individuality.
Ceremoniously-we scrape the jaw, leg, arm with dull blades:
enthralled, by the chorus of those who love unconditionally (even
the dark side of man) as they lament the quickening of spirits
And on the morrow our company shall be acceptable, aware, that
the mystic white has persuaded our suffrage through unopened
doors, where our release is born, again, deep within the blushing
breasts of immortality's unquenchable thirst. And this ignoble of
place shall pour-out its occupants to stroll winter's leaf-strewn
passage to celestial warmth.
Darrell B. Grayson 12.03
Alabama Death Row