And so he cuts anchor, and sails off into a latent sea.
And so again we come to that silent place where all the things we’ve left unsaid come to die slow, quiet, timely, deaths.
Now, more than ever,
more than before;
you fill my days
with sighs, and tears,
smiles that fade with
last light. Leaving
a quiet desperation, a
still burning fire, and the
desire for nothing
less than you.
So oft, our best face is just a cover for our worst fears. We put on fig leaves to hide our shame. Our scant remedy, dress the body; but the problem – the bleeding wound – is the heart.
I have come to realize that a great part of my youth has been spent, trying to pass these quiet midnight hours.
For so long, I have endeavored to create this beautiful, other, world – one of fancy, of melancholy, of love and regret – with the pen in my hand and the ink that flows from it. With it, I sought escape – a safe place – from the tiresome and mundane, from the relentless assault of reality, and the people and things in it.
Perhaps, I thought, somehow with this I could save myself.
So with pen in hand, and cigarette in another; with a heart full of sadness and a head full of words, I set out to create this distant, quiet place, and poured all that I had into it. But in the end, there is nothing here, really. Just empty words, a turn of phrase, a gesture, a smile, a tear, a gentle wisp of smoke in the still night air, and then, nothing. Such fleeting things. Such hollow things.
And all this time, she has stood by my side – a specter – whispering to me, this muse of mine.
Oh, how beautiful you were for a time! How I thought you would save me from myself! How I thought you would complete me, sustain me.
But I was wrong. The undeniable truth is this: you are nothing more than a deified reflection of the deep, hidden things of my soul that could find no other expression. You cannot fill the void I created you to fill. You are me, standing in the mirror through a veil of words.
This is not Prospero dismissing Ariel, this is me bidding you adieu, farewell.
It was truly beautiful for a while. But it is no longer the beauty that I seek.
I do not need you anymore.
Beneath the tree, its
she unfolds before me.
And like the late afternoon
breeze, she stirs
me / I am lulled
as her voice carries
warmth and whisper, light,
like memories – so many
leaves, painting smiles
against an autumn sky.
I forget to breathe,
as, quiet, she dreams.