Schiztory

Fragments, so many,
emerging, glittering
points of light,
interrupt the calm,
of night-time reflection.

Each bright point
connected by,
vast gleaming webs of spit.
Saliva coruscates and drips,
trickles into shallow pools
of meaning.

Formless begetting form,
vapours hovering,
over dark waters,
from which emerge,
the hunched backs of bodies,
dividing from abyssal deep.

Mouths agape,
swallowing,
thick viscous fluids.
Fattened they fall,
piled in foul heaps,
of decay, to sleep.
To dream.

Centuries of History,
displayed like strategic points,
on a map,
encapsulated, joined like dots.
Haphazardly overlap.
Borders stringently defined,
guarded. They grow,
wane, flicker and fall.

A tattered picture,
of it all,
shaped by time's ravages.
Crushed by the hands,
in which it's been held,
torn, between opposite demands,
in opposite directions.
To rest in foreign lands.

Altered, falsified,
purged of all imperfections.
Given form,
content,
a purpose.
Put in alignement,
with the original intent,
of that piercing gaze which says:
"This is what was meant".

~MStJ