In the House of Gray Matter
Inside the termite feast wooden slats agonize in the pedestal of the former fortress. A shell of clapper boards still attempts to shield the gooey mass from infernal storms. Only one room for the great reception candle lights and evening gown and there remains only the gray matter. It pulsates at an unforgiving beat oozing with the last glows of a dream blind through the cracks of faked windows. Few thoughts emanate from the dull fire a spark here pretends to still care yet it is alien to an existence it once knew. The walls ache with a constant throb while the ruby fluid quickly pales soon it will be darkness in this old head.
Let Her Cry Once More
Staring at a faraway line beyond the surf having braved the early hour in a light satin she has walked perhaps a final stroll upon a beloved shore. Like so many covers of fancy periodicals she still graces the pages of her wondrous tale stained by the repeated wounds of her teen days Broken in bones as she is in soul the ocean is the receptacle of grand desires filled with endless torrents of her tears. Beneath her breast a fire attempts to burst into an eternal scream through the air yet she remains silent as her gaze darkens. Once she only had her chagrin for companion now she recalls the long hours before dawn when she could sound a voluptuous cry. It has been centuries she feels since she was last able to make a whisper but now it is time to accept the embrace of the wave. Wrapped in the immense shroud of days without sense she lets herself carried away to the depths where at least she will repose in safety.
Writing Her In
The pen softly moves across the white page of unfulfilled dreams an unfinished tale whispers to the cosmos. Drawing upon memories others hold deep within the aching flesh he searches the ideal perhaps none can fathom. A word is born into the velum a letter of endless curves and thick edges to the side of the eternal page. He might be blind to the unruly crowds as he contemplates a vision carved on the secret walls of his crumbling days. The story at last comes to life phrases take form above the sterile land and dance a waltz into tight embrace. Revealed in its most simple attire even if but for a mere instant he has found the refuge within the creation.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.