Handcuffed politely to the bedpost of his inspiration,
he is optimistic that this time the limits
of self-imposed constraint will be breached, if not brutalised entirely.
‘Don Quixote’ - a whimper of metaphor;
‘DoN QuiXoTE’ - a rush of chiming vowels;
’DON QUIXOTE’ - a panic of ecstatic prosody.
Ignoring his aching wrists
and with imagination unfettered,
he reaches for paper and pen, and begins.
‘Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.’
- Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
I am your safe word
Say it however silent you need to
I am your calm when unsteady hands shake
We are too torn for the light we are trying to ignite in each other
I fancy your beautiful
I will soothe the trembles in your mind even when she is standing next to you
She can't see you
Stop trying to show her the broken bits that I have crafted for my silver lining
I see your scars
And I am trying to embody to you what it is they mean to me
I love you
It came, it came out
Like waterfalls, like rainstorms, like hearts leaking not yet ready for touch
And I love you
I am not sorry
I will never be sorry
I love you
I am where you are free, this here is your truth
And you are trying to run away from me
I am not scared of your light
You are made, crafted, pieced together from remnants of the sun
I did not mean to fly so close to you
I am not trying to end as Icarus does
I am not willing to let us ruin me.
This piece is an unfinished story of two people I care for dearly, whose story I am attempting to put to paper.... Hopefully there will be more to come from this.
— The End —