Aphelion

Whoa . . . damn lot of hurt in that one . . .

to take the replies, the thread, the picture of pieces; inspiration rears once more its ugly head.
***
"Too much Catholic school?" +
"Nobel peace prize" +
"Fake the adulthood" +
"Whoa...whole lot of hurt in that one" +
(mix a little Edgar Allen, thanks Mark) +
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My Lord,
savior at hand as the hand of the clock beats the bell.
Dwelling in my mothers soul; despair at what has become of me.
"Grow up and stop crying"
Tone to mark the passage of seconds while the cursed chime sounds out in rhythm
my hand battered, bloody; youth shaking.
*
What manner can unfold this undertaking?
Clothed in black habit, smiling at Father, meting education inch by inch,
ruler spared only when tears no longer flow free.
'Love your enemy' or what do they truly mean?
*
No longer innocent, no longer spared the view of what grown man can be,
I have never again spared a tear,
nor,
flinched as I pared womanly flesh with the loving blade of steel,
nor,
never again said those childish words,
"Forgive me, Father."

Ah, what a Mother [Superior]'s love can do . . .

Pink Floyd: A most wonderful talent who with words, music, and video, open the mind.
Stories, such as in Aphelion, are of the genre that not only open the mind,
but cause the smell of the words to reach out.
Out and about,
threads of letters combine,
only to scatter when logic swats in protection,
then to swirl like moths in the light
to reassemble
and the exposed mind then salivates, hungry for the meal of imagination,
enjoys the feast
the memory to fade as realty of life once more,
succeeds.