35. [fear]Fully; No[one]

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Though I walk in fear.. I am silent from design..

“Ginge.. you are less than twisted, but definitely worse than cheeky..”
~ My one “true” Aquaintance

 

I had been staring into the abyss for quite some time. Possibly, probably, awaiting the moment that the shadows would stir and something mischevious would stare back. Novel, but alas, it never seems to be the breath necessary.

I always forget that part. Breathing. Mundane, but is it? Often I find myself holding on to it for no other reason than the habitual diversity of function seems to have left me. Lost, so thoroughly, in whatever bliss was whirling tenderly along the lining of a mind cast aside; forgotten.

Those words were an awakening, and even though there was no sound that could be heard, I believe it was felt like a shiver in the air between us. Laughter. Something completely devilish, chaotic, and heard so often in the silence of batted lashes that he expresses from time to time his own madness; unsure which is real.

I know absolutely nothing about him, nor he I. Friendship is the least of what I would refer to silence as. Mutual glances from time to time over the flow of something red, and flavorful.. a hinderance that is tasted fruitfully. He breathes for me, and in moments, the film of mist shifts and the darkness settles as always around us. Worn, carefully, without the touch of disdain so many fail to notice. Too many lay eyes up on flesh or hands upon the eyes in meaning to grasp at one or another; there is never either. There is space. Clarity. A hush that is desired, until, at the emptiness of the last swept motion of need it’s simply gone.

He leaves me alone.
That earns my presence.
For the sake of this arrangement; I do so hope mutiny remains behind his tongue.
I have such little interest in the sound of lies.

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34. Came no one..

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..

33. Tell-a-tale

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Everyone needs a friend; even in the depths of madness..

The little girl
she could not dream
for fear of darkness come..

The little girl
she could not sleep
for fear of burning sun..

The little girl
she could not smile
for fear had taken toll..

The little girl
in darkness wept
and begged to know her soul.

~

The little girl
met a little boy
and stranger things progressed..

The little girl
and the little boy
became a pair; a mess..

He broke her heart
so she [stole] his
and so the story goes..

The little girl
she knew the tales
from the depths of Rabbit Holes..

32. [Self] Chicanery

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A girl [lies] beneath the Woman.. but the woman simply lies. 
Speak long enough,
soft 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..

She lies.
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?
For what?
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.
To [lie].

 

 

31. Reoccurring [miss]behavior

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..and the innocent shall be but a memory; vague beyond the tragedy.

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.

 

29. Slowly..

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.. seconds.. they WILL turn to moments.

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?

28. Stillness..

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“… let it be in the correct manner..”


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.

Which will break me first?