"Torn and Quartered" is a favorite piece of mine: it's a poem in four acts dealing with mental decay.
Crux
There's a table between us. A candle for two—only it's shadowing one—is in the middle. I clink my fork against my plate. Your spoon brushes against your bowl. Suddenly, I cough. But you don't glance at me. I then hear something like a sneeze, only I ignore. "What a pleasant day today," I mumble. "The evening is chilly," you answer. The candle's dance flicks shadows across the room as I see your face. I feel you quickly turn your head from me, but I know you spied my eyes. Only, I can't see the rest of you, because there's a table between us.
Gothic Art
A painting on my wall was created by an unknown artisan. I have no idea who he is, or if it's even male. Daily, I touch the curling flecks of gold paint lining the frame of the mysterious creation. I admire the brush strokes, the color . . . the light. When I close my eyes, I imagine the artist strenuously painting his vision of life. The bends of light that merge with the dark shadows make me think of my own paradoxes. In the corner of the creation there is a huddled boy. His form is scared, alone. I often end my viewing session of the masterpiece with my eyes on the boy. The more I examine the art, the more I realize I know nothing all.
Thunder
Voracious openings in the sky are the pores of God. His temper is stretched thin tonight, for my ways have angered Him. I can hear Him crying over my misdeeds as I sit near the fire, the glow casting a sinister aura over my form. I raise my glass of wine to my lips as I drink from the chalice of lust one last time. From my eye, I spy the candle that sat on the lonely table just hours ago. In the halls of my empty mansion, the sounds of God's creatures echo betwixt the thunder. Just as I voraciously devour my drink, the wrath of God will devour my home and body tonight.
Finis
My wife, my love was murdered this evening. I say that with utmost concern over her situation. We never really understood each other. Dinners would be depressing with misunderstood words and lost intentions. Her favorite painting was my least and I will have it burn to the ground with my home, my sanctuary. I hear the crying of God as the roar of fire blasts around me. I glance down and see sparks of flame latch onto my trousers. The warmth of misery is so comforting. I can imagine the embrace of my wife one last time as I succumb to the glory of flame. If only we knew each other better, it wouldn't have had to come to this.
