Saturday, February 6, 2010

Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

There is a chill-
a window, cracked to the storm;
water falling, slanted with the rain
the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-
water and its fate;
then a wimper-

somewhere within the house
down the stairs
and in the warm, dank, darkness
the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify
ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds
white and pure, only a moment-
but the sensation lasts and lasts.
In the light, the tear-stained face-
no longer sad
acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles
no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes
staring off into the storm.
The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

Words tattooed on a speechless heart
declaring that one day
this being will speak without fear

Every night, the same blue twilight
trying to find bearings
by moonlit highlight and starry outline
learning how to discern shadows
from the silhouettes, reality
from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;
an empty mind
and an unclenched soul-
only sweat and clammy skin haunts
as the light of what is tomorrow
comes too soon,
burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,
feeling sickness take grip.
Moments of inspiration-
flicking the nightstand light on,
hope manifests itself in the way of
barely discernible scribbling in worn,
coffee-stained journal pages;
the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable
what hope is there for the speechless heart
when every night, creativity is dashed on
dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles
about the dimly lit apartment
once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,
now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails
of a 'common' consciousness,
fighting for normalcy-
then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,
it waits beneath the bed,
amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,
waiting for the night
and another try.

Words will come.

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