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The Quiver

That is how the saying goes, and I repeat it to myself now as I make my way through the foyer, to the reception room. These people, most of whom I have not seen in almost fifteen years, are waiting chatting idly to one another like no time has passed at all Reverting back to the caricatures they created when we were younger. The same old jokes reverberate around the same old skulls, and the responses practised feverently over time have become slick and smooth, like the movement from the shadows that reaches up to take your safety  in a dark alley.
Around me, the hallway closes in, the gold leaf paisley stretches out from its port coloured frame, like the fingers of an ivy, clambering for purchase around a great redwood Smothering and choking the air until there is no life, no light, no sound. I feel the blood rise in one great movement through my body, pushing my neck out over the collars of my starched shirt, coercing me to loosen the tie and undo the top button, to disperse the lights that dance in front of my eyes. Nothing seems to fit my body as the pounding blood beats my head into submission. The entrance looms ahead.
Horrible faux oak, swing doors with the stench of urine and food fat emanating from their pours, its windows are etched and opaque, showing only distorted shadows of distorted faces in the next room. Bulky brass hinges hold the barrier in place long enough for me to be with you once more. Alone I shed a tear before the façade begins, alone I cry inside, and remember what it was to hold you, and how hard I tried to restrain myself, to keep my feelings for you platonic.
If ever in this world man has been granted to dine with Gods, if, a manifestation of their presence should envelope the very soul of being, then in their presence I indeed have supped. Never has a heart and soul been wrenched between the Sun and the Moon with so much grace, with such delicate fingers as those which touched my very soul. Sweet Moon hear me now “I love you. Yet daylight is to where I belong”, and as that light disappears from the horizon, so too, my life will be ended, and its remains, cast into the abyss of memory, for those who knew to remember, to recall my song.
I find it strange to believe that lights this bright should go unnoticed by each other until being flung together by chance, irrevocable chance; the nudge from behind for the emotionally apathetic. Nevertheless this was the case and how for such a short space of time I knew what it meant to be loved and to be untouchable. I knew what it was like to reach for something unachievable, I knew what it was like to have made the gravest of mistakes, and feel the cold walls of respect and honour weighing heavily upon me.
How does the stranded sailor resist the Sirens voice?
I thought I knew, I thought I knew.
I swam away from you, as far as I could. But your voice surrounded me, and I could not tell from which direction you called. I struggled on and on in isolation derived of sustenance and sanity, driven by an unyielding desire to rid myself of your eyes until one day I heard your voice no more. Still far from the safety of land, I was now utterly alone, drifting on whichever current decided to carry me for a while. Days past, and slowly the silence which at first I had greeted with relief and regret now carried away any rational thought left within me, I had rid myself of you and this is my madness.
I cannot bear this next step. This is the step of a million woes, from the steps of the coliseum arched mouth piece; the doors, into the den where the lions wait, ready to tear me apart. With no tool to defend myself with, I seek her out praying for the confidence I need right now. Old friends greet me, looking haggard and torn; the years have not been kind to them. The restraints of liberal industry have leeched the blood from their bodies, their life, long gone from those eyes; filled with the glassy translucence that pivots in their hands. They are the ghosts now, they are apparitions to me.
In the midst of the throng I sense her. Emanating from the centre of the room, like a queen in her hive. All life flows around its source, flowing rivers and currents of energy juxtaposed and intermingling, swirling around inside a cup of fine bone china.  Here, her ebony gown flows untouched beneath the feet of well wishers and God seekers, teachers and prophets. Upon her crown, a laurel wreath rests symbolic of my love lost and I am loathe to pretend once more. As a path clears between us I no longer have to make my mind up, her cool hazel eyes rise to meet mine and the thin lips crack into a smile of thanks, a smile of pity. I move toward her and my feet gain sureness upon the waxed beams. As she rises to greet me, we share a tear, and embrace for the first time in a lifetime.
“She would be pleased to know that you are here”, she told me. “You two really were meant to be together, I wish I had said that back then”.
I smiled because I knew, I smiled because we knew. We knew all along.
On the eve of this passing, I stand here looking out to the horizon and try to remember your voice singing to me, calling me to you. The sand is cool and damp beneath my feet. Occasional itches from sand hoppers crossing those great mounds in their path and the fresh salt air that brings my own flood to the surface. Now as the sun prepares to disappear behind the horizon, I take a step into the tide to follow you, and wonder as I feel my last breath disappear, that I might hear your song in my ear once more.

30 Jan 07

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Yass, Yass, Yass - this is it, this is what has become, time, rhythm, a thousand answers and all the reasons why. This is a post mark of our age children, a flag pole of a heart and an inspiration to all who give ear, who listen. And I have listened - the bench mark has been raised, a holy bard has rissin. Bless - im off to bed. If i can sleep and stop thinking. D
 — philoanon

yes please stop thinking
 — unknown

read the poem and not the comments
 — philoanon

couple of typ"O"s, sort them!
 — unknown

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