all was peaceful serene secure content in this sleepy isolation with only the dogs for company had i wished to disturb their soothing repose reading a little-known novel once heralded the hero if he could be called such was fracturing slowly on the brink of shattering
but before the incendiary final pages could be reached this dormant comfort erupted interrupted by a shattering much closer to home; both dogs and man on the highest of alert searching for a cause anything to blame but finding nothing
The journey begins always in the mind but it always manifests with the sliding of rectangular boxes encasing index cards. The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues and a chase scene begins in a wooded forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and thousands upon thousands of both soft and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain. These days a computer terminal or a touch screen has replaced these boxes but their function remains the same; being akin to boarding pass gates that regulate your voyage above and beyond.
You complete me and do so in every sound you now mouth, every movement of your tongue, every muscle’s adjustment to effect fresh shape to phrase, in every quick, shallow breath giving sudden pause and turn to the next silence.
You complete me at this reading and so I am deaf to the closing, blind to the ending you gift me and ignorant of the next stair with no balustrade to steady where you leave the first me to rise to find, first-hand, the landing that completes me
triggered by Walt Whitman's 'To You'. "...now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem..."
The paper weight will hold my ink down in a way my fluidity never could.
No matter how violent my metaphor, how heady my imagery, how blistering my narrative - it will hold the reader's attention, ensuring my thoughts reach each reader's own resolution a little before the weight shifts and the burden of their eyes falls heavy on the turn of the page
and then their eyes will lift, burdened with new meaning.
I started with the concept of a paper weight, and went from there.
Empty Heart still aches Broken are we Standing at the window of heart You refused to leave Addicted eyes wander to steal a glance Distant are we We bid goodbyes Sacrificing the coast of communication Snapshots still pooling up our eyes Sacrificial Are we We the truth Unsaid The stories breathing In dead We love to be loved Building a house of mud Empty the empty heart Again Yet it feels empty Breathing are we