The blog is in a state of transition right now. I bought my domain name last year, but with B1’s medical fiasco early this month I didn’t pay attention to our daily spending and kind of screwed up our budget for the month. So, The House of Hale expires in February and I’m not sure what I’m going to do from there. I’ll probably keep blogging somewhere but I haven’t quite decided yet.
At any rate, I’ve been busily going through my archives trying to save and salvage what I have here, and I found this post. It’s one of my favorite poem/songs from way back in the day. I thought it was worth another share. Enjoy!
We held hands on the last night on earth. Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves.It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease. In our cancer of passion you said, “Death is a midnight runner.”
The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress.The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skittered away in hopes of a better pastime. I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany in a quick fall, but you made me realize that my ticket wasn’t good for two. I rode alone.
You said, “The cinders are falling like snow.” There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence. Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran down desparate streets and carved our names in the flesh of the city. The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines. Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward, and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth like a message.
-AFI, This Time Imperfect