Violent Dawn

Erik Rittenberry

dark-conceptual-photographers-13

fragments of a ravaged night
spiders across the sultry dread
as the lark harmonizes narcotic
hymns aloft the long time dead.

and there she is again
dancin’ barefoot in the
graveyard
with a bottle in hand,
gazing into the night
taking spontaneous pulls
to dilute the agony
of the dying light.

just look how stunningly mad she is.
look how she sways to the melody
of her own dark.

some say she made a pact with the devil
some say she has a fetish for the dead
some say she’s a witch, a whore,
a midnight tramp, a ‘crazy bitch’ adrift
inside her own shattered head.

maybe she’s all of them.
maybe she’s none.

but never could she lead
the kind of life like the rest –
masked, playing a part
untouched unscarred
cautiously intact
wretchedly dull
and oh so pathetically
predictable in their cutthroat
allegiance to the
white picket fence
monotony
of the so-called
American Dream.

there’s no thunder in their minds
no lightning in their veins
they love halfheartedly
they hate halfheartedly
they live halfheartedly
they lack the imagination
to question anything and
everything, particularly
the collective morality
that dictates their
brief little
inauthentic
lives.

unlike them
her soul throbs desperately
with the heart of the universe
oscillating
between rapture and rage
poetry and madness
life and death.

her internal living flame
glows like a lantern deep in the
caverns of a withering world
as the insipid moralizers
with apocalyptic eyes
look on from the threshold,
safe and sound, fearful of the sacred –
the kingdom within that only
the fearless come to know.

just a mere taste of her sensuality
ignites volcanoes of oxytocin –
sloshing splashing spraying
cascading into the bloodstream

and the great wars erupt
and the great empires crumble
and the great kings fall
and the world comes to an end.

with a ravenous hunger, she bites
forbidden fruit of serpent trees
in the luscious garden of unborn light.

in spite of her turmoil, in spite of her
desperate rage, she’s wildly alive,
unafraid, reborn daily into the night
out of a fierce suffering
as she dances in the divine dirt
trespassing in and out of time
under the swaying pines
above the forgotten bones
of a place beyond

forever nurturing her ardent dreams
never wasting the violent dawn.

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