Foreign

There was only silence where she sat as though intoxicated by her own life, her breathing and her sighs. She heard nothing else. Not the silent patter of footsteps across the ledge, nor the rapid knocking from far beyond her mind could see. There was only her in the here and now. In the I and in the We.

Rocking, shuddering, soundless in her cries, her eyes searched in hunger for all that she looked upon despite her empty gaze. Grounded. There was nothing left to yearn. Broken illusions and unkept words, she slowly drew the cloak tighter around that which she had revealed. It was no longer to be this way. Not if it would only result in the same.

Upon the floor she sat, unmoving and secure. Chained to the past, of the now-boxed emotions that could hold no truth, that could not bear the weight, the gravity of what could be seen if only one could see. If it could lie to her no more. Colour left her cheeks and she slowly withdrew to what she was before. Back to death and beyond. A state she knew so well, was so comfortable with that she could befriend it once again. No expectations, nothing held. She could simply just be..

No Farce to be

In echoed steps
Towards you I walk
As parted sighs
Combine to mine
As afraid to gaze
In locked embrace
We guard each start
Though still hurl time
To the troubled deep
Into the waking state
Of the softly laid
From the pieced innate
As I continue to walk
In your leaving print
Lasting; each fear
Of hardened beats,
Back, and in time.

blah blah blah

Patience

Scenes of mute destruction remain.

Such powerful steps. Such a bold cry. Startlingly stilled in frozen desire.. And yet we stoop; incredulous at the weight of that which we sow.

To not believe is an act of defiance; To change, the only way to grieve. And the wait? It is but the calm that can only bring with it whatever is determined to be. This is where each test plays their part: a grasping hold to bring each closer to all that we believe. And closer to the What and the Whom. A wilful choice by design. To endure.

A finality of trust. Each to One alone. More than one could need. And more than that each know.

And she? She shall play it at her own pace; shall remain still if it is willed to be. She does like her games. Time really is a tease.