As I gaze across the water I am reminded of the stones I cast as a child.
Interaction with my closely guarded emotions merely skimming, avoiding  the deeper connection with my soul.
As the pebbles cast long ago in childhood, dancing across the sparking, sun drenched ripples of the the river.
Of course I realise now that the stones found their way to the murky depths of the river bed.
A cycle of light and dark, of pleasure and pain.
Patiently awaiting the current to drag them, inch by inch to the light at the waters edge again, trusting in their journey, unquestioning.
The stark realisation cuts deep... Is startling in its clarity.
In darkness one finds strength... and an appreciation for the light when once again it emerges.
Instead through fear of pain and loss one creates  a play in which they are merely actors.
Well versed but stagnant, life scripted, safe, predictable.
I surrender to the darkness.
Within  its shadowy depths lies treasure.

She smiled and she grinned.
  So happy, so free.
  Unbothered by the worries,
  Not one could plainly see.

  But far beneath the smiles,
  She screamed, a soundless cry.
  She wept in deafening silence,
  Underneath the lie.

  He smiled, he laughed.
  Such a friendly young man.
  Bared one daughter, but no sons.
  He walked every day, never ran.

  But far beneath his chuckles,
  Were rules set to comply.
  With the daughter that he’d beaten,
  Underneath the lie.

  The evening of the funeral,
  She’d mourned for their third part.
  The mother she’d held dearly,
  Heart spiked over the feeble chart.
  
  Family gathered around him,
  Said they’re sorry for his loss.
  Wife and daughter gone,
  He prayed under the wooden cross.
  
  But far beneath his sorrow,
  His heinous grin reached the sky.
  For he cried tears of satisfaction,
  Underneath the lie.

I lie  below the moonlit sky.
The ground cold and damp beneath my naked form.  
Skin illuminated by  the moon’s cool and eerie gaze.
A single tear makes a slow trail down a pale and harrowed cheek.
Lost to the angst that threatens to engulf.
At war with the rot that spreads....deeper and deeper.
It has all but devoured me.
Its permeation almost absolute.
It’s wicked fingers needling and gouging my exhausted flesh.
The brutal **** and possession of my soul its ultimate conquest.
Like a forest fire it wages....out of control..insatiable.
Consuming everything in its wake.
Leaching the very life from my weary bones.
I hear a cry...faint...from somewhere distant yet intrinsic and inherent.
A voice ignored, dismissed and disregarded.
I feel a sudden wrench, a loss so profound it takes my breath away.
Fingers grasp empty air as my very essence departs and ascends.
Driven out by toxic demons.
I hear a final plaintive cry as my soul returns to the ether.
Lost to me forever.

I'm as lonely as a station at night.

The december mist and the moon
peaking high over the iron fence
dulled the low volt into weird halo.

But like bats I reap the rewards of night.

The buzz of the crickets rose in crescendo
from the undergrowths around the track
sounding as unreal as the silent platform
abruptly cropping up on nowhere land
doubtful if ever a train would notice it.

Days are dull actings dancing to strings
yielding nothing to let you know you.
I'm in full vision before the lightless mirror
opening up alone but with the many faces
the dreary day ruthlessly hid from me.

The mist was engulfing the iron railings
and when a distant engine whistled
there was no track or platform
but only the lone flyer hung on the moon
like a bat glued to the scent of night.

it's the way her hand moves back and forth in the air
as she's thinking
Like a maestro, conducting
an orchestra;
but it's her mind,
unfolding.
cue the crash of cymbals,
jarring
-- and silence.
//
Cue the image of her ex husband,
and the flat landscape which was their marriage
and the heat which hovered on the horizon,
like unreachable dreams,
taking on the form of
water.
but she cracked with dry reality.
cue the salt on her lips

-- crash.

//

and here we bring in the street preacher,
who can't keep his eyes on her face.

he reminds her if the desert.

he reminds her that sometimes we must cover up the curves to keep from stumbling our weak brothers who cannot resist the presence of wine,
(but she is not the wine.)
//
women are not the wine,
and men are not the drunkards.
women are not the wine,
or any other intoxicating substance.
neither are they meat sacrificed to idols,

or meat at all.
//
cue the crash of resounding cymbals
and it breaks her train of thought
but it does not break her
//
and the desert did not **** her
and the drunkard can not taste her

cue the crash

-- and silence.