this blog is dedicated to my pursuit of Fickle pattering prance across the naked chest.
Dear feverish child enlivened by irremediable dance,
conclude this trifling pattern that will end in collapse.
Aviary fashioned from bone will certainly stifle,
your sensibility underneath a necropolis of prospect.
Sweet cherub can’t your capricious rhythm not see?
This cavort masquerade you play is merely a reprieve.
The piano played a melancholy tune as he stood by the large window.
An ominous melody sealed the fractures of the surrounding partitions.
His eyes tightly sewed shut plaguing his vision with the comparable darkness he could never discover behind the confining glass.
Outside, in the far off distance, beyond the forest exists a cliff formed over the edge of the world.
Atop flourishes an ancient tree whose limbs have perished and forgotten how to bloom.
Beneath branches looming over the fringe of the universe a young woman ensconces burying her face in the creases of her arms.
Droplets composed of a compound of searing salt mixed with water falls from her open blue eyes.
There once was fruit that thrived on these once vigorous vines but were accursed to rot from within by a madness that at one time was termed friend.
Alone he danced across the decomposed wooden floors inside his frail thoughts.
The song continued on and on as a virus,
infecting his wounded aspirations until its harmony manipulated his very will to dream.
If tears could form from designs drawn from elaborate creations of our construct they would have found his emotions and relieved his pain.
Though only the music could listen to the silent notes of the strings in his failing heart.
When all that one can see are their manifested wonders and only their essence defined by an idea wherein lies the crux?
For the lovely ink that courses their being will persistently beg for more to be fed until its gut is filled.
She stands and braces herself with her hand against the trunk of the tree and the other wiping away the running rivers from her face.
Her trembling steps and clamoring hands find their way around the tree until below her next step is the endless deep.
She looks out toward the eternal dark searching for a brilliant spark willing to settle for simply a flicker.
Nothing.
Without an igniting sun to rescue her she allowed the wind to nudge her frame and into the end she came.
His body was lovely in perfect peace.
Laying across the wooden floor completely at ease.
Though his life was blind and her mortal thread was severed that night, the song played on and on into the light.
For days he’s watered it dearly.
The exotic plant that decorates his desk.
Subtly hidden beside the window frame.
Running his hands gracefully down its roots,
that burrow deep into the pot of soil he’s constructed.
By hand it was made to resist fractures and fail to break.
Though he would never allow such disaster to occur.
For weeks he’s tenderly saturated it’s stem.
Cleansing its imperfections from its evident beauty.
Clearing away the dirt that covers its eyes from the sun.
A saint of caution he purges its transgressions,
along with purified water that he washes down it’s body.
Passionately bathing his precious flower with ardor.
Solicitously loving his secret flora in wait for the day of blooming.
For months he waits patiently beside his extraordinary gift.
Trimming the many sprouting sins from it’s consistent proliferation.
Mending it’s every putrid bruise with his emerald heart.
Warily retaining his green flame from its combustible fronds.
In silence it sits afraid to expose its ravishing splendor.
Unaware of the truest grandeur it possess behind it’s bud.
He has always known this truth before it burgeoned from the soil.
For years he has adored his cherished love.
Tending to its every need and killing its every disease.
Never has he wished for more of it than just it’s color.
The radiant hues that have delighted his smile.
The vivid pigment that sleeps on his desk.
His greatest desire being only its life in his own.
Together in full bloom.
He wants to say that he’s cold but he’s not.
He wants to cry but he knows it’s pointless.
Pacing back and forth between bedroom and hallway.
He wants to stay still but he knows the world will still turn.
He could watch the clock slowly change but why would he?
He tries to put words on a page but that is all they are.
He stares at the ceiling, then out the window, then smothers his face into his pillow.
He stands and walks into the kitchen. Fumbles through the drawers and glances out the window.
There the neighbors and their kids play.
Smiles on every face.
A little boy notices him and waves.
He waves back.
