The Guest from Canis Minor

I wonder, who my Puppetmaster may be in this reality; he's always operating behind the scenes, and will remain there until it's 'Game Over'. It doesn't matter much more to me, I've basically tired of Unknown adventures, I just want to figure my life out, but of course that's the minute things become ultimately more complex, definitively unclear, but it's a constant battle, I've had a hard time surrendering. I was told to plan out my entire life, and didn't do so with much success. Then, I'll wait for someone to bring up something, and then I'll go back home, and then what? I don't know... something, though. 

Watching Rabbit Hole, I thought about something, I should write a play. I want to write a play about the old consuming the young; a play about a reality that I and the members of my family cling on to still, after all the years that have transpired. The play will be told from the perspective of my dead dog, who no longer has a body, but is the omniscient narrator from another dimension, who came back as a ghost to see the state of our family after being dead for two months, the equivalent of a 10-year journey from where she's from. She is a male in her new-found reality, and it will be told in 1st person, with asides to the audience and dialogue, featuring flashbacks and flash-forwards. I think a play is more accessible to someone like me, because in Creative Writing workshops, I was always told my strength was dialogue. Well, time to flesh out this idea, and write working title, "The Guest from Canis Minor". 

Drawn to ledges  

           my gaze    

                    edges

  tip   ... toes  one 

                                blink 

                                         over 

to kiss wet

[Cement]

Quartz graveyard 

bottles 

without messages

glimmer and gleam 

like blades or blood 

diamonds

                   distant celestial dots slaves to the night sky.

Twinkle  ...

   ...Twinkle

you  

staccato sirens 

lamenting life's lost

children      

searching...        for shiny promises 

      scattered             across 

                             the 

Universe                           like               seeds 

                           weary               of                 the

                                                whims            of 

          impulsive

                                                        winds.

Who remembers these

motherless

sons 

and

daughters? 

nocturnal nomads 

seeking mercy from 

the damning 

desert's 

solemn sands'

subterranean 

caverns

realm to ravenous red 

giants' stolen 

treasures

down

below 

the day's surface 

ruled by serpents

       crowning the

      (anonymous?)

bones littered by life’s countless {1...2....}

orphans. 

Paradise Lost

The need to escape intensifies; this time it is different- a chemical journey inside or outside of my consciousness will not cut it anymore.
I dream in the most vibrant and intense hues of Technicolor, but
you say, "Not everything is black or white..." Keep your neutral
grays, which cannot begin to express my curiosity. I want no part of
your bland discoveries--
a slight thrill is the last thing I am looking for
(I know it's not enough). I want to feel my pounding pulse
behind my eyes, I want the world to challenge every truth
I've ever known to be true. I want to experience for myself,
by myself. I do not want to be tested on past
experiences contained in cruel, dust-heavy
tomes burying the facts inside their thick-skinned covers.

If the world is diabolical, I want to to arrive at that conclusion alone.
If the world is good, I want to discover unexpected kindness and grace in the darkest alleyways.
We have but one life, and the promise of a padded afterlife is not good enough.
Paradise. What makes you so sure that I want any part of your Paradise?
I am one of your lost children and you have the nerve to ask why I detached myself.
Your flagrant authority, your blind conviction drove me
to doubt every truth you had ever fountained.