The Sixth Floor of Contentment

(Inspired by excerpt from Survivor by Chuck Palahnuik.)

Perched atop ladder against storm-clouded marble walls,
Breathing the dust gathered on a crop of fake peonies.
Examining dark magenta specimen: note worthy soaked silk.
Stiff silence prods the impatience stirring within me.

The echoing silence lingers, now undoubtedly empty.
I slip off worn leather shoe and begin knocking Morse code;
Hello? Can anybody hear me? My tapping salutations
Seeking undead answers, hearing nothing but what I wrote.

This hunger for response is digesting my better judgment
Give me devil, angel, spirit, zombie; any monstrous verification.
Do some stirring from inside your box, movement mocking mine.
More than flesh, blood and bone: prove eternity. Not stagnation.

A sudden janitorial heave of plastic-rolling bins interrupts.
With naivety he smiles to the "friendly florist" at Crypt 786.
Then gesturing back in character my lips unwillingly curl.
Yesterdays funeral grade: garbage in garbage out. Fixed.

Alone again with all my friends, now shy of conversation;
Contradicting past confessions, I've been ordained a priest.
"My boyfriend left." Kill yourself. "I'm a drunk." Kill yourself.
Crypts 786, 483, 295: I am the reason you're deceased.

Why don't people hold to life as a precious gift of Time?
One can only wish the world to recognize the blatant truth.
Conflict arises in the midst of day, and how quickly you give up.
Hear what you want: It's not the cowards way out: Kill yourself too.

September 30th, 2008
(c) Novalyn Grace RRL

(Inspired by excerpt from Survivor by Chuck Palahnuik. Not written anything quite like this before: not happy with it yet. Critique is greatly appreciated.)