Being Invincible

[Cuddlefish]

Every morning I wake up to a vulture, clawing at the fleshless parts of my being, picking at me for scraps of food for shadows.

I will not give up, I am invincible.

Every morning, it comes with claws and jagged beak, sneaking in through the windows along with rays and razor blades of sunlight, a silhouette of it's lurking form splayed across my flinching face.

I will stand, these chains be damned.

In he swoops, oil black feathers, plumes of plight, devoid of hope, carrying dissatisfaction like some over-grown avian flu. He tears. Void eyes pierce from a pink head, bald, unashamed of it's terrible, wrinkled face. He stares.

I stay on my feet. I cannot be beat.

Persistent fiend. He aught to be, I taught him myself. Wings of perfect jet, he sets upon his prey, it's me in both places. There's no chase, no contest, no struggle, no sport. I'm chained to a black rock, it's him, but maybe I am his rock to be chained to. Tangled feathers, fingers, arms, wings, beak and hair. He strikes, because that's his best instinct, it always has been. Each slowly sinking claw burns brands upon my memory. Everywhere I go I carry with me my own enemy.

I will fight, wrong or right, to make it to another night.

Eyes sagging, gaping. My lids, heavy slitted bags, I watch, I wait, for his arrival. My rival. My enemy. My old, old, friend. The sword with two ends. I anticipate the lacerations, and brace myself, quietly biding the time till he comes, brandishing his beak-axe and claw-daggers, staggering, like some hideously intoxicated tyrannosaurus, or ancient dragon.

I spit and cuss. I stand my ground because I must.

A sudden wilting crushing. I clutch at wounds, pulsing, gushing. Flush, I fumble. Writhe. Wraith. Wight. Shade. Shadow. Nothing. Empty. Pouring endless falls of sorrow glide, roaring through my crippled mind. Echoes bent and broken. Endless calls of sorrow guide, the roaring of the rippled tide. Tripping, tipping, tumbling, I mumble to myself, or you, or someone else, it's numbing.

As long as I have moving blood, I will not budge for stone, or rain or mud.

Heracles, it seems, is on a semi-permanent leave. He's distracted by some actors; Nothing but shadow puppets on the walls, as a matter of fact. He doesn't see the vultures eating at their own masters, the distractions coming constantly faster. Multitasking is the the new virtue, or vice; they're alike. Thirty second interactions. Form factions. Echo chambers built and bellowed in. Fat little piggies, millions wiggling to the oh-so-tempting teat to suckle the newest flavor of empty, zero, nothing. The new color, or anti-color, or brand, make or model, or anti brand, make or model of good old fashioned American made nothing nothing nothing, worse than fucking nothing. Heracles will not come, as he "likes" the chains that bind him, and we're cursed to blackened, vile vultures making shreds of former persons, morbid psychological confetti spread on the streets of endless confusion, decay, entropy and nothing nothing, nothing.

And if all the days remain the same, I will stand. Invincible. Lame.

[LMNO]

Whoa. Nice job.  Personally, it gets a little muddled in the end, but it's got some powerful emotions behind it.

[Cuddlefish]

Whoa. Nice job.  Personally, it gets a little muddled in the end, but it's got some powerful emotions behind it.

Yeah. I wanted to end it, and it wouldn't end, so I just put a twist tie on it and called it done...

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Wow... very good! I liked the ending, myself, and I also thought that the use of internal rhyme was an excellent balance that added impact to the piece. Well done!