Where were you?
[[Private]]
The darkness comes early now to wait upon my window ledge; it carries songs of disquietude upon its back. I watch the lights go out, slowly -- one by one -- until all the paths are lamplit & no one is sleeping. The whispers of each little life combine in harmony with the darkness & its songs. This symphony swells against the tidings of the sun -- dawn shatters the music -- not a quiet, only cacophony -- the noise of daylight overwhelms the fragile secrets sung to me; with glaring obstinacy it displays truth & reality; constancy in waves -- this is life; this is life; this is life -- washing this small body smooth as a stone, empty as the shells. I carry the roar of the ocean inside me. Put your ear to my mouth & listen. I will sing you songs of disquietude, brought by autumn's coldness to frost my windowpane, each note a crystal in the blooming matrices. Each chill finger a mystery spelled out, only backwards -- so that it is both a lie & unreadable. I keep a record in the hollow place inside me & I have learned this; careful: if one attempts to capture it, it will vanish under the warmth of sudden humanity. How is it that we have ascribed so much effort to keeping the darkness at bay, & yet we fail every sundown? Why do we not welcome the night or find solace in its relentless courtship of our solitude? These questions taunt me from shadows on the floor formed by the streetlights' patterns of the window. In this way I read the autumn's tale.
I am alone with the darkness, kept separate only by the lamp and the glass. A scintilla of madness taps out a beguiling melody. The sky burns in a reflection of so many little fires around me; I wonder when the stars will disappear.
The darkness comes early now to wait upon my window ledge; it carries songs of disquietude upon its back. I watch the lights go out, slowly -- one by one -- until all the paths are lamplit & no one is sleeping. The whispers of each little life combine in harmony with the darkness & its songs. This symphony swells against the tidings of the sun -- dawn shatters the music -- not a quiet, only cacophony -- the noise of daylight overwhelms the fragile secrets sung to me; with glaring obstinacy it displays truth & reality; constancy in waves -- this is life; this is life; this is life -- washing this small body smooth as a stone, empty as the shells. I carry the roar of the ocean inside me. Put your ear to my mouth & listen. I will sing you songs of disquietude, brought by autumn's coldness to frost my windowpane, each note a crystal in the blooming matrices. Each chill finger a mystery spelled out, only backwards -- so that it is both a lie & unreadable. I keep a record in the hollow place inside me & I have learned this; careful: if one attempts to capture it, it will vanish under the warmth of sudden humanity. How is it that we have ascribed so much effort to keeping the darkness at bay, & yet we fail every sundown? Why do we not welcome the night or find solace in its relentless courtship of our solitude? These questions taunt me from shadows on the floor formed by the streetlights' patterns of the window. In this way I read the autumn's tale.
I am alone with the darkness, kept separate only by the lamp and the glass. A scintilla of madness taps out a beguiling melody. The sky burns in a reflection of so many little fires around me; I wonder when the stars will disappear.