Soapstone

A simple soap dish-

Procuring a bar of soap,

That withers at the same pace as an autumn leaf,

A theater seat,

(an autumn leaf)

in the thick of it,

A secluded seat,

(In an autumn house)

Overlooking a desolate landscape and a desolate audience;

This  ivory balcony,

Cradling  an ivory emperor,

Embracing an ivory civilization.

Overlooking grout that desperately needs to be cleaned and empty shampoo bottles,

Overlooking strawberry fields and unhappy denizens,

That look more like chemicals  when the lights are on, then they are when

All the lights go off.

Empty gladiators, when the sun goes down.

Empty houses, when the candles burn out.

When the curtain is pulled away…

                                          When the contrails slowly fade away…

This white coliseum,

White not like the heavens

White not like the heavens.

This kingdom is revealed,

Having housed so many decorative soaps over so many filthy years;

Silent soaps and black & white soaps,

Translucent greens and blues soaps indigo’s and violets shine right through the frosted glass,

Technicolor soaps,

More beautiful than any salt lamp or crystal skull;

Lathered onto chapped elbows;

Every color is present but the rainbow itself.

                                    & the elbows themselves are absent, too.

& the audience themselves are absent too,

Thank god for the TelePrompter.

& the echoes

& the echoes

In this lone white  stall;

In this lone white stall;

This lone white horse, with its lone white carriage  who will always ride alone, off into the white of the clouds.

The floor of this sanctuary,

Having been scorched by dragons, and conquered by

Invasive species after invasive species…

Crawling with impunity  and abbreviations;

Left  only with paradigms  and cavernous chasms;

Tiled like a checkerboard,   only missing the black spots

                                              (As well as the players themselves)

So that there might never be any kings.

Or any moons,

                                                                                    Or metaphors.

Or jumping of any kind.

Elaborate frescoes made up of hand-prints and  beading water that runs slowly down the walls after a certain mist begins to evaporate.

Unintentional artistry that lacks artisans,                                                          of any kind.

After the faucets are instead turned counterclockwise,

So that they can both look at one-other, and fall in love with one-other.

But never hold one-another,

&

To fall asleep in separate beds.

All that is within these walls,

What is within these walls,

Protected by that frosted glass door, that could possibly fall off its rusted hinges at any moment.

And no guards.

Never any guards.

Aside from the soap, and in the rarest of seasons, a bottle of conditioner,

Conditioned to withstand next-to-nothing.

Only a select few  forces exist here.

Save for the occasional  daddy long legs, that is  all too careful not to get it feet wet.

Holding it’s expensive new boots over its head with one hand,

While carrying its young in another,

and its luggage in another,

Tiptoeing  through the deluge, while sidestepping the wreckage that is slowly circling the drain.

No bars either.

No snakes either.

                                                                                          Only sunken ships.

& shrieking hydras.

This ghostly prison,

This ghostly ocean,

Complete with the peeling wallpaper,

 That successfully imitates sand-dunes, peeled back with

Each

Gust

Of

Wind

This palatial landscape,

(Minus the area rug)

Offers no official windows so that wayward birds may perch,

& sing…

& sing…

Songs of freedom and silver  river bends,

 Songs of silver  rolling hills and  white picket fences,

                      Songs 

Of bayonets and treasure chests.

Of bayonets and treasure chests.

 

These are songs unsung.

These songs about bayonets and treasure chests.

These songs about bayonets and treasure chests.

Songs that can only be found inside a treasure chest.

The ghostly inmate isn’t  afforded a jaunty tune,

Or camaraderie of any kind.

It can only communicate  with sign language from across the vacant room;

The soft defenseless  slab of marble.

This slowly disintegrating bar of soap.

Like a carefully sliced loaf of bread;

Trembling before it makes its way into the oven, quietly accepting what  should define the mortality of a loaf of bread.

 Assuming its fate was to be sculpted and nothing more.

-Sweating Michelangelo now more than ever.

At one point, unequivocally whole,  and  solely alone with only

Brave plants and other invertebrates, to converse with.

   Tucked into a messy drawer of assorted toiletries,

Not quite as sharp as the drawer full of cutlery,

And not quite as bitter a drawer full of spices.

 Before the chisel  inevitably  arrives,

Before a dragon breathes such fire that the entire village is destroyed.

Before a hand reaches out and squeezes too hard.

& the train arrives at the a station a moment too late,

This final  bar of white soap procures itself,

Like a dove, searching for any sign of land.

& An olive branch.

& an olive.

Sunbathing without any sun.

                                                                                But with a plethora of towels.

Over time, through showers,

Both hot & cold,

Though shadows,

Under umbrellas;

All that is left, when all is said and done and molded,

Fixated and torn apart with talons,

Is residue left  under fingernails,

       Relegating time to be told on sundials,

                                                                     While nesting birds sing underneath it all,

not yet ready to fly.

 

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