My Manifesto: Near The Entrance Of My Tomb

Solitude is for a writer what rain is to the trees

Inside my tomb, alone, I will write and write and write and write and write and write and write…

Alexander Michael Ziperovich

The mob symphony discordant and quiet,
They want me to sing

…my voice, my breathless cry for you to know what it’s like
inside these hallowed chambers, here there is nothing but everything,
intoned like the first beating of the wings of a baby sparrow…

I’m as bad as they say I am good, passing around splinters instead of firewood,
kindling for light, our solemn nod to the great splinter-less logs,
burning into the sky of the night

Imagine how the stars do whisper amongst themselves, a great tragic laughter, their tears dripping down the face of the night, fireflies hum capturing and holding drops of sobbing stars, until the sun assumes its throne and dries our weeping scars

Alone in solitude naked toting bags of words in the jowls of my cheeks, fingers to papers, release myself from this cell in this prison of my own ill-intentioned creation, self-disdain raping my mind with a wealth of pain salacious, I’ll rip it out and escape and write on all that remains

Soon, I disappear to confront my shackles ripping off their masks finding that beneath those masks of my guards is my face, trapped and hard, seeing beauty blind suffocation, no more, no more, I will take what I shall take and I will rename it and replace it and light it ablaze, there is no more time for me to waste

The stars have shed enough tears on my behalf and I have lived enough fear and all that hell that is left, is to be procured, packaged, and burned at the stake, tip toe back to collect the ashes and gather them in my arms walking backwards so that I might put it all back together into a beautiful tapestry of a man’s last grasp

This man’s last gasp

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