The rose bushes beyond high,
Knee-deep grass around the gate, as I
Spun around my feet and I
Walked right through into death’s domain.
Surprisingly warm, surprisingly calm,
The wonder of daylight invited itself
Through windows that have not creaked
For months, months, it has been months
Since life stirred the dust off their wooden frames.
Opened the ebony lid to reveal
The golden print on the inside, so I could feel
The ivory keys which have now harbored,
In exchange for nothing, but slow deterioration,
A dangerous tenant. A moth.
My hand fell steady
On familiar matter, as beloved letters,
Forming words in my head, gave way to music,
And its power subdued their threatening drums.
Fingers carried me through lands of passion
Where I loved like the girl that I was,
Soared like the girl that I was,
Enticed souls, like the girl that I was
And am now not.
The mirror is covered, still.
I believe not that he is still
Here. Though ‘here’ is nothing more
Than a game of mind.
Like these spells of joy
And these bouts of fright
We call ‘time’.
I never felt I possessed much
Of this special substance
That stretches forever
But not quite.
Journey with me to the lands of passion,
Hold my waist as I turn all of my pain
Into sound
And shriek it away.
But you do not
And did not
Come that day…
Sometimes my voice happens.
It does not come by will. It happens.
They have changed, the days.
The days of you and I are shorter, more common.
They are, in fact, brimming
With common sense, (how ghastly the shadow it casts down on love)
And residues of illusion. And aloneness. And transmogrified visions
Of images we used to be.
Through the motions we go, the unraveling flows
On, unstopped, carrying away our souls,
The white lines of hollow hearts glow,
Grow
Apart…
Then all fades, amalgamates
Into twilight and its caress.
My hands do things on their own
On the keys whose ivory bleeds
Under the weight of my dreams
Of yesterday,
Of a better day.
Please pray for my
Voice to happen...
