She refused to acknowledge the
abandoned carnival
that was her past.

A childhood stuck at a silent standstill;
all it took was the admission of
one
for the melodic music,
haunting memories
and porcelain faces
to come flooding
out of the darkness
and back
to a life of nauseating
nostalgia.

She instead preferred
to pack it all in boxes
and hide it
under a giant tent of
secrets
marked
with a sign that warned
“No Trespassing”
to probing eyes.

In the end, that’s all
they ever turned out to be.
Curious minds, eager
to pull her apart and leave her lie
in pieces.

Content to play the game of charades
and
disappear at the
midnight
of her lonely masquerade.

It happened every time.

And she’d learned her lesson.
She was safe
only when floating hand in hand
with her dreams.
In peaceful sleep
came the promise of the
future.
Whether true
or not,
it was the solace she clung to
desperately,
the arms she trusted to
break
her
fall.

It was the dignity with which she gracefully carried herself through life.

A thought occurs,
trailing through mind,
body and
breath.
Pen is touched to paper,
anticipating,
then freezes.

Nothing.

That single opening line vibrates
through the silence,
a plea to be acknowledged,
expressed.

But,
a powerless leader
of an illusory accompaniment,
words crumble to
scattered sonants
that remain voiceless,
and finally fall to
faithless piles
of
consonant
filth.

Perhaps then
it is not the time
for concrete concepts,
but for those of more
complexity.

Such cannot be fathomed
into speech, or
even hastily scrawled.
They are felt
without sight
or sense entirely,
and only completed upon
the final emblem,
the lowering of the means,
the posed close of the
dance.

All meant
to be interpreted,
yet not understood.  
Appreciated in shrouded  
mystery,
and impressed
upon lives
for the uncovering
of a
     revived
          revelation.

Melodic perfection winds through my ears
and finds my heart.
Authentic purity overcomes me
in the length of a cleansing sigh.

I am an extension of the music.

Let me fall through the lush lyrics
as they slip into nothingness,
chased by whispers of rhythms
that bow to the soft,
solo sad note.

Standing alone,
it is that suspended heartbreak
that becomes my very salvation.
I am captivated and hang motionless,
unable to control the cry for solace.
The silence that follows
carries naught
but a trembling tear.
Its slow, deliberate splash
deprives me of breath
and depraves the scant sanctuary
that is so painfully fragile.
The truth is now sustained;
We are the composition.

Awaken what is hidden
for a higher reminder
and walk me,
dance me,
romance me to the night’s contentment.
Only then do the wandering secede
to the late goodbye conveyed
by the instrumental vow
of the final vibrato.

(They were for us, and us alone.)*


The rain, it is my comfort,
when I sit, alone, in darkness,
my thoughts completely consumed
by you.

I lay sprawled,
flat on my back,
feet up, resting against the cold hostile wall,
stubborn red hair flowing tangled beneath me,
and wonder, how might life be different,
had we not parted from each other's worlds,
had we dared to be brave, dared to be strong,
looked life square in the eyes, hand in hand
and made a run for it.

Made a place in this world,
for us.

I think about our share of love for storms.
Our way of being soothed in the dead of night,
by a steady, unmistakable rhythm carrying on
just outside the window.

It made us feel safe. It made us feel as though
our place really did occupy this land,
somewhere,
and we,
in our youth, could face anything.
Together.

I try not to regret, but do anyways,
the paths we chose instead.
Separate ones, leading in opposite directions,
while still confining us under the same sky,
leading to a point of ignorance,
a point of near unrecognition.

I dream of another choice, one that brings us back,
to the people we once were -- but in secret, only for each other.
This very moment might then not even exist.

But then the thunder calls, pulling me back to my true place, and that's when I remember:

that is not my reality.

You sit, you watch. You wait;
a cloud of hope misted over your eyes.
The passing of time taunts and teases,
but to its dismay you remain unresponsive,
until it bores of its sore attempts and progresses.
Your figure fades to the background of surroundings.


Your story has a beginning,
but no end.
How long have you waited for the hand holding the pen
to return with your “happily ever after?”

What will you do if it, too,
has gone with time,
never to make itself renown
amongst those who have ignored your existence for so long now?


I know what you're missing.
I know that you know it, too.

So stand.

Climb out of the lonely hole of emptiness that slowly engulfed you,
all those years ago.

That hand?
It's not coming.
So instead,
I'll lend you one.

And we'll write that happy ending together.