This poem is all about emotion (honestly, dark emotion) and the feelings and mental pictures that best fit that particular emotion for me.
I am that solitary figure
...inside that otherwise empty Van Gogh stroked, sepia-dark room
...inside that eerie story told by high school boys dressed in slacks and polos
in the dark of a windy night under a naked oak
...inside the haunted film set in late fall in New England
...inside that stymied body of work
that comprises so much modern American tragedy and horror.
How many are the princesses and princes
Heroes and heroines,
Paupers and kings
slaves and gods in our stories?
What personalization or association is too far
for the masses to claim their personal "I."
In snapshots, disconnected, on a same single stool
In the empty, Van Gogh stroked, sepia-dark room
my hands cover my face, grasp the stool to fight the demons
my shoulders sag with dark burdens, arch back with searing pain
legs planted to waiting, writhed and curled in cerebral anguish
Neck thrown back, extended, always, emphasizing a corporal symmetry
and the delicacy of life.
For I, only I, am the one within all this gnawing narrative
...within the sights and sounds of stale cinema
...within the hollow hell of nature's whispering
of story threw the mouths of impudent young tellers
...within the otherwise empty Van Gogh stroked, sepia-dark room where
I am the solitary figure.