Hey Girl: Stuck in a Loop

March 2, 2009
By Kerofbi BRONZE, Los Gatos, California
Kerofbi BRONZE, Los Gatos, California
2 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Hey Girl: Stuck in a Loop

Out the window, smoke rising, she looks again:
It's dark out there, colossal trees peer pretty.
Bitterness of crude hands, softly echoing
People down the room, lighted in this city.

The clock nears six again; chilly air descends.
Of cruel deceit, slave of Time's brazen wings,
Chilling her neck as she stands up, urged on by
Her watch, as she scrambles to pick up her things.

Books in, pencils and eraser together.
Papers neatly stacked, all things fall in place, yet
The clock ticks by, and pack ready, she departs,
Shoving aside glass doors, out to the time set

To meet the shining, silent beast of the night.
It glows, radiating outwards, flaring out
To stun her. She blinks stupidly, then recollects
Herself. Rise to be swallowed; she looks about,

Steps up the stairs, eyes meet once with the driver.
No words need to be spoken but the cold steel
Sound of coins, the only agreement they have.
A nod and she moves on, with no need to feel.

The driver closes the doors upon the beast,
A slightest moment of quiet lingers on,
Then the man sets the beast roaring on again
As she grips the sides, the lighted books all gone.

She is ignorant of light vanishing back.
Surrounded by sitting night spirits once fey,
Only voids take residence here, muted flames
Died, as if Prometheus' traitors there lay.

Flames dwindled, the beast ambles without delay,
But slowly, glowing down the darkened streets, dull.
Watching phantom after phantom, ghastly creatures
Grasping through glass, to miss and scratch at its hull.

Such nights are long, but she stares intently still,
Waiting still as beast crowds with beast, apathy
Her eye's color. Awaiting conclusion of
Outer beast's trek, she sees the crossroads pithy.

With reluctance she tiredly tugs upon rope,
Signaling her next stop ahead waiting dark.
She exits, and all the world remains the same,
A cold valley, filled with rivers, without spark.

She steps quietly upon its banks as the
Water rushes dangerously by, threatening
With every gush of green tide, daring her cross.
The cold wind sweeps her by, rejuvenating.

Her hair, strands dancing in invisible wind,
Brings a brief smile for the moment, but just
Enough to strengthen her stride along the banks
Of concrete: in such a joy she cannot trust.

She waits, finds a flash of time to think about
Her day, but there is nothing there to think about:
Her day has gone without event, and she is
Drawn back to the streetlights and her awaited route.

Her eyes languish, drawing themselves to the stream,
Wishing and longing, thinking once of reaching
Out and drowning herself, but shivering, passes.
Afraid she is, but she has enough teaching:

She knows that even in her dreams, she still lies
In this world, stuck, tired, with not one escape.
Even this island of hers is a retreat.
The halting of the river takes solid shape,

A river of gold fireflies, flourishes
She along its banks. Depart once more and through
Its mist, she crosses over towards homes
Friendly, all the while upon her home rue.

The home calls out to her, and she feels their call,
But ignores it. Cold street, dark night, flows her
Mind, and she walks along. Through bough and bushes
She silently puffs, looks around, though none stir.

She arrives at her house of serenity, clouds
Hiding its presence, though the waters flow just
Nearby. Her legs implore her to rest, but her
End is ahead, and though she should not, she must,

And on she shall. Withal, she arrives, greets the
Familiar, and familiarly, in
Return. What she does there no others know, save those
With her. A night of odd and fun, joy within.

She returns before dawn, across the river,
Through the winding brine, back home, where work awaits.
The night closes its eyes, and she falls under its
Spell too, and she, dreaming far away to, skates.

Morn again.

The day is rushed, as if the wind had caught her
Up early, cold, and had taken her to all
Places she must go, but did not wish for. Blur
And blur and blur; she must rest, or risk a fall.

She has returned to the city of lights. How
Am I here? But I am, and no doubt lies here.
Nonetheless, weariness plagues her mind, pain slows
Her, forces her sit. Cannot remember ere

She leaves, the night last. The trees once more, whispers
The same, she departs to wait for the nightly
Ambling beast, she cannot recall dividing
Difference between this and last, quite rightly.

Dichotomy inexistent, she follows
Across, through grasping spirits, darkening night,
And bright orbs around, with faint voids around her,
She looks out, but this time more tired. The flight

Once more to her secret place is of less joy,
More despair. This time, the stop is even more
Sudden, as if, now! She is awake once more.
Fatigue plagues her, her thoughts empty. Nothing is for

Thought, and she goes through another cycle. After
One, another comes, and she begins to buckle,
Overwhelmed by the forces of time and the
Passing of knowledge. It is the fifth cycle.

She lies in bed, very alive, but only so
Living can hurt her. Her shoulders ache, her head
Exists only for the needles through it, and
Her back only does nothing. She had not bled,

But felt only worse for it. Life to her was
Not life for her, but only machines setting
Her life. The cycle must break. It will break, it
Must. The morning comes. This morn, with meting

Clouds, she arises, and does not walk out the door.
She pauses, returns to her room, and lies down.
A return to the closet, the close of it,
She runs out the door without previous frown.

The winter morn is not forgiving, but then,
Neither is she: harsh and ragged, her fight is
Not one of hatred, but one of a wish to
Break her cycle: bubbles on shoes quickly fizz.

There is no break in her stride as the rain pours,
There is no pain her legs as there is sorrow,
There is no thought she cannot block with her doors,
There is no thing she can wait for tomorrow.

Legs forward, unbroken, she is a shadow
Of outside storm: she fears neither rain nor cold,
For the fire burning within is a shield
That she had never known before, nor of told.

Her tears flow freely as rain does from above,
She alone with no other to comfort breaks
Of glass in her heart; but there is no break this
Time: her tears are joyous, rain trails in her wakes.

The fire drives her on, on and on until
She decides to stop, stopping for what she knows
Not yet, but dripping elated, she is still.
She returns home, hot water her beauty's rose.

The cycle is broken.

The author's comments:
Having found a time of surrealism in my life, I chose to express the oddities and peculiarities of viewing the world through the light of the mind in a less than ideal state, attempting to fight against the cycles of life that humans subject themselves to.

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