Once, upon a wish; a scream
alone she sat in peace of dreams
and for the depths of hollow shame
Came no one, nothing; timeless blame..
In life and love, for all the woes
a sinner sheds the garb it chose
by [Melody] the Devil dances
Came no one, nothing; darkened glances..
There’s no one who can fill the void
of tattered [mourning]; sunlit joys
a dampened curse gets played, and still
upon the darkened window sill
she sits and waits while turmoil renders
every moment, every gender
from him to her, and them to they
the twisted little dreams replay..
a [whisper] quote the churchmouse; dead
a scream, the lion, begs in dread
there’s nothing and there’s no one here
but all the souls are set and near..
she waits, she dares, she lives in fear..
Speak long enough,
with just enough drawn out warmth to your words..
and anyone will believe you..
What then of the girl who doesn’t care to be believed? The girl who shelters her tongue, mirroring quietly the undetected closure cast aside and forgotten?
There is always one.
There is always that soul that watches in peaceful silence; noting, notating, negotiating in her own mind all the things that could have been but are less than desired by desire herself..
With every curve of a smile she doesn’t feel.
With every tilt of her head that she knows guides the seldom wrong into comfort; as if she cares. As if their words held her interest, when in truth, she is miles away in the tethered backdrop of her own creating.
She lies, still.
In every single tasteful breath that sighs a lilt of southern bliss, all too easily repeated in a melody of joy when it’s picked up; picked on..
In each and every rise and fall of pitch and tone. The moments when she plays upon the innocence expected of her, and the litany of misfortune that supposedly she is to wear around her in brace.
She lies very well, but to whom?
Is the purpose in the lie of the girl that prefers silence to the chattering of the meaningless?
Is it the calm in the control, that just in such a solitary moment, she can piece it all together.. She can grasp what eludes her, even in her own mind; so unknown?
Perhaps, it’s in the hope that she’ll be more than seen.
That she’ll be known.
Not for what comes out of her fingertips, but for what drips off of her tongue in the stammering chaos of misguided attempts to still her quivering words..
Till then, she is content.
I, am content.
Broken little things, become carefully crafted versions within the shards. Each trickle of essence that bled along the lines still whispers; tangibly grating. A ceaselessly melodic ticking that drums the tips of pain against the edge. Bliss is just beyond the tearing flesh, and still.. it’s [still].
It’s a silence that grips where all the screams of the world have dropped into nothing. It’s a chaos that sweetly sings to the childlike dreams, which are far and few from one to the next.. gently carving out a path to return. So delicate, in fact, that you come to miss the catastrophe when it touches the light of ecstasy. It’s.. me.
Those moments, breath by self-destructive breath, have found some sense of sensibility shaken back into a monotonous routine. Thriving would be a word ill used, but alive.. that would suit the devastation that has come and gone. Leaving behind it a hinted glimmer of something warm upon the horizon..
To be plain, and brief, it has been a little over a month since the passing of my Opa; my Grand Father. I am still not myself, and don’t foresee that I will be in the near future. I’ve made peace with the anger, and for the most part have come back from the blackness with which I found comfort.
As to writing.. it may still be a bit before I return.
A close soul has their suspicions, and has stated thus: “When you do finally decide to write again.. I have a feeling it’s going to shatter your Silent facade”.
If only you could see the smile that was given for those words. Perhaps it IS time to break beyond Ecnelis. Wouldn’t that be something to see?
When some men die it is as if you had lost your pen-knife, and were subject to perpetual inconvenience until you could get another. Other men’s going is like the vanishing of a great mountain from the landscape, and the outlook of life is changed forever. ~Phillips Brooks
There is pain that cuts through you so viciously, without mercy, that it leaves you in a state of perpetual bliss. Something vanishing, in which you [lie] upon the graciousness of your own misfortunes, and what is yours is shaken into dire states of desolation..
This is not that pain..
This pain is delicate. So delicate, in fact, that were it to be caressed with but the single breath of wing.. it would shatter. This pain is held in the silence of a calmness. This pain is isolated so well, that it dare not even quiver for the sake of forsaking nothing and everything in the depths of absolution. It is something to be tethered, cradled, coddled, and traced in the gentlest of heartbeats that sound off in unison beneath a courageously lacking shell. A facade built so well, and so quickly, that the tremors of folly beneath it wait in stillness for that all too familiar collapse to set the world in flames.
When there is nothing holding you in place, except for your own inability to remove the pins from the wall, that.. is fear. That is a silence that is all encompassing, and yet, it has a distinctive ability to cover [my] Earth in its validity. It is a warped sensation. From the edge of that pretty little visionary line, you can see the silhouettes so poised in preparation to be of some use; dismissively. Yes? No. Your surrounding endeavor is one riddled with trepidation, and it stands to reason, that beyond the delicately lain tendrils of your own misdoings is some semblance of aversion. To what, being the answer that bares ground in no tangible question. Everything is as it seems, and nothing truly falls within the realm of being unfounded; so… twist the anything, and mark it with the grievances of nonsensical confinement. That should do it..