a twine of threads
|
Blessed Intervention
March 25, 2005
I think about the implications of diving in too deep and possibly the complications Especially at night Day after day it reappears First light comes, but not that he sees it. As always, it's felt more than anything else, a sharp stab that demands that he sits up. The sheets fall to his waist, and hands extend behind him as if some shock rifled through his system. A heartattack, perhaps? Something simpler, like the anxiety of a thousand deaths, seen over and over again. Desperate fear and draining despair. Eternal companions. Once more, his body drips with sweat, earned in the short struggle. Beside him, his lover sleeps, unfettered now by such memories. His love has something special in death, a deserved rest that comes regardless, night after night. Instead, he has a recurring nightmare of Hell in his exchange, visceral knowledge of his own demise. Abandoned at a stake, his locks shorn, his body wracked with scars and burns, and his skin torn by mites. He should have wished for death then, but instead, in his screams were promises of vengeance twined with anguished begging to his Master to help him. There is Death. There is, apparently, Undeath. But this? What is this? But that was someone else's trial, he remembers. It must be someone else's trial. Someone else's demise. A story read in a book, affecting, but a book nonetheless. A sad, cautionary tale and a tragic one to boot. It's not real, that story, and it's not now. He'd return to sleep, save it is light outside. It's daylight already. They come around so quickly. A full day, a night, and then once more, the sun is there, demanding he walk in the real world. Do something. Do something normal. Alone between the sheets At least there's pretty lights Around him, tourists walk in the opposing direction. His eyes downcast, he steps across a narrow portion of a canal, to cross and turn a corner. A cigarette comes to his lips as he angles to let a couple delight by him. He has none such. Not now. Fingers pull at his bottom lip as small brown flecks of tobacco fall from the rolled paper. He inhales again before turning another corner. There, he exhales and presses his back into a wall, sighing. His eyes close and the cigarette falls to the musty beige water below, where it floats harmlessly, the paper soaking water. He should see the sun for the buildings, but he knows it almost instinctively now - darkness comes. Lights twinkle on the upper floors in so many windows. Night after night, my heartbeat shows the fear Ghosts appear and fade away Come back another day Like that, the world is washed away. He finds himself beside his lover again, before indigo floods the sky. The sheets stir as he settles upon his side, to face the blonde beside him. It is what he lives for, this moment. What else is there? There are no battles to fight, no God to serve, no King, no land, no people, no politic, no religion. They say those things died some time ago. But there persists this dream - nightmare - that begins when his eyes barely close as he waits. A time when there was a man to be and duties to perform. How the world has its leisure now. Green countryside gives way to grey buildings and a cell not more than three by three by three. The panic rises in his stomach, and the horror upon his face. But that is for later. Later, that story will continue. In a moment, he'll awake again, and a smiling face will open the night to him. And for a while, while awake, he'll smile at his lover, and find comfort in his presence. There is no rest for the wicked. That is what they tell him. And so it must be True. Night after night, my heartbeat shows the fear Ghosts appear and fade away... First light comes, but not that he sees it. As always, it's felt more than anything else, a sharp stab that demands that he sits up. The sheets fall to his waist, and hands extend behind him as if some shock rifled through his system. A heartattack, perhaps? Something simpler, like the anxiety of a thousand deaths, seen over and over again. Desperate fear and draining despair. He pants loudly, and looks beside himself to the beatific face that rests so sweetly. He manages a weak instant of relief, then gives his gaze to the wall ahead, trying to calm his breathing. The bedding is tossed aside, and the man pads towards his slacks, rubbing his eyes. Daylight again. |