I cannot see the light as I stare into the night. I stretch out my hand and rest it on a prayer. It flutters beneath the failing strength of my belief. Bottled hope is sold within buildings of sand and stone. Beacons of guidance that shine with splendor… blinding the very ones that approach on bended knee. Look up fool and see the god you kneel before.
I ignore the praise that is freely given. It clatters upon the cobbled courtyard and bounces oddly like fool’s gold. Value washes away with the tide, I lament the need for sorrow at its passing. Still, I care not.
Each morning I see you. We look deeply into each other’s eyes… the same damn eyes. We struggle, we accept, and we struggle again. The intensity of our bond causes the glass to melt. It forms small puddles upon the floor that reflect different images of my inner struggle. I stomp on them, but with each victory I am rewarded with more awareness of my failure. I weep my soul from my eyes. It falls like liquid glass even as it struggles to keep a single fingertip upon my queevering eyelash.
The moon shines like the sun. Like you once liked it. I can still see the silver rays as they glance off your black hair. It shimmers in the night as each strand searches to catch up with us in our dance. We dance still, our hands locked as tightly as our eyes. We love and the willows planted yonder sway with the unheard music. Still our feet never miss a beat as we glide past worries and fears. Lost in a moment as we create a moment, I cannot weep from sheer happiness. To feel your arms once more it is a blessing and a curse. Our steps gather pace as we rush to savor the moment before the coming sun. Our hearts beat as a single beat, for a single heart is all that is present. And as the first rays of sunlight penetrate the leafy canopy above I feel you begin to drift away. I yearn for just another second, another minute of your company. But wishing upon a star is impossible when the stars are hidden. I realize this as the first tears begin to fall from my eyes and splatter upon your gravestone. I miss you.
What is the tone of your writing? Do you feel it in your fingers? Sometimes I feel like my ten digits write the sound of my heart. I allow them free reign upon the playing field of my keyboard. The taps of the keys lessen the stress I feel in my shoulders. My body looks to my fingers for guidance, truer expression of emotion cannot be found.
I wonder if my right hand is angrier than my left. They compete for the middle of the keyboard and joust over space. I feel like putting one in time-out sometimes, but what would I be with only one hand? Would it hinder the sharing of my passion, of my true thoughts? I contemplate this as I feel the need to work my extensions to death. My joints creak with the effort, the effort is worth it though.
The tone of my fingers is the tone of me. I have to believe that as I drive them for more. Always more, my nails reflect the determination of my eyes. And so I continue to write, to share, and to possibly care. It is all my fingers know.
Do you hear the sound of humanity rising through the clouds? It is not a prayer. It is the sound of life, the life that you gave… that you began. We raise the volume of our hearts in hope that you remember us. That you will continue to care. Do you hear it now as it washes over the mountains and ferments the hearts of man? It is the song, a wordless essence of care that we all share when we open ourselves to a chance. A chance to matter before we do not matter at all.
How sad the voice sounds when echoed back from emptiness. A validation that your words were not heard and instead clattered down the well of humanity hitting the walls on the way down. I pen a thought in the night so that I remember the deed with the coming sun. The blessed light does not erase the shadows of doubt that I was able to scrape together on fallen wood. I create a sailboat from my unpublished drafts and send them drifting down the stream. They collide with a myriad of other boats at journey’s end… thoughts left to silently die by me. And turning away from my failures I look up as the rain begins to fall. The echo of droplets hitting puddles beneath my feet compound the reality of the moment. A reality I embrace with my last breath.
My eyes bleed sleep. Droplets of concern puddle at my feet, they reflect my humanity in the moonlight. I mumble hope and walk in a daze, a zombie to the life I live. I pass people, places, and things… they create a cascade of reality around me. A reality I do not touch, but instead I am simply aware of their surrounding existence. I yearn to live even while I wish for sleep. But sleep does not visit this vessel. Instead she turns and kisses another… a fickle bitch till the end.