O Fortuna, Carmina Burana: Carl Orff

something is waiting in the shadows & watches every move you make---already to make its move.

someone or something is lurking in the shadows---buried in the darkest parts of your house and shifting slighting within the mischievous range of the black night, only then does it fill your hear with rapid beats of fear & terror---it invades your every thought & reminds you only of the worst moments of your life, repeating over and over again, endlessly, like the anti-thesis of an orgasm---just bludgeoning pain---a morning star mace being slammed against your face for eternity---a thousand voices inside your skull mumble & scream in tandem---they see it coming before you do and you twitch, you twist, you sweat, the beads float down your chest like drips from an icicle in the barren sunlight---the slicing & slashing of knives, swords, razorblades, saws, mechanical machines grinding and causing destruction in front, behind, all around you---beings marching up a mountain in which only the silhouette is possible for you to see---you get up in the middle of the night and look out your already barred window---the moonlight reflects upon the snow, the ice, the puddles in the dirt-ridden & oil slicked streets---it shifts again, shapes disappearing and reappearing---the worst real stories of murder, rape & savagery come to the forefront---right in your neighborhood---right within these very walls within which you now pace back and forth, the death began & has never stopped coming after you---you can’t see its face but you know its there---you clench the blunt object in your hand---you want a friend, a loved one to accompany you through what you thought were the safest parts of your life---you step as if each one was your last---looking for the branches outside, the bits of broken glass left from cars destroyed in the early morn---trepidation replaces calmness---no matter how many pills you pop your eyes are stapled open---your eyeballs dilate & you grit your teeth---you gnash them together, tearing out your fingernails---the dread, the horror, the quick movements & you almost snap your neck trying to catch every difference in light---the room swivels, and it teeters on its edge---you smell someone else in the room---you swear you hear things outside your skull but you haven’t one other being who will confirm these things---buried in your own bewilderment---facing the complete engrossing abyss without a life boat, without a safety net---you capitulate---you get down on the ground in the middle of the room---the rain pounding outside---the doors to the houses & the apartments around you slamming & opening and creaking---the crows cawing, the dogs barking, growling & snarling---the voices inside no longer agreeing with each other but now cackling back and forth and some yelling & shouting as if just to hear themselves quake with their own personal torments---and then you reach out your arms to cling onto anything that will let you---you want, you need the strongest arms---you need the strongest voice to drown out all the rest---you need what simply is not there---& that greatest consternation shocks you awake. 

Reviews

[roarke]

and such is the hang-over of life. One word for your writing style, "epitome"

Carmina Burana, pretty much.

great write.