like a brand new ink cartridge
you pushed me into your pen
and drew with me
such beautiful lines
and I caressed your pages
with mine.
you used me up,
but not completely,
my colour was never enough.
you wanted more
and yanked me out
without a glance
discarded me on the floor.
i walk across the bridge alone
in the cold moonlight
i see your face in every
passerby
and those that see me cry.
the innocent moon
that does nothing but shine.
i came back
angry and offended
and see the willow tree.
he was like the moon, cold and distant - but always within reach. she would watch him from the bottom of her well. she often heard laughter echoing through her chamber. the stone walls that encircled glistened with blue light; small comfort. she would sometimes sing; that unsettled him, shattering his illusions of a perfect world. the rope had been cut - long ago. she knew it had been him. the neglected forest, wild and overgrown, kept her a secret - never to be found.
what was it that you said to me about the moon, how it had the magnitude to capture our shadows? were those the exact words that you used? i can remember the story of the princess, who became trapped in the moon's reflection on the surface of the lake. we each recall the story differently - you argue that she was a queen; i do not think that it matters. we wander into the forest. the silence was uncomfortable; i hesitate just for a moment. you gently take my hand and guide me from the path. i will never find my way back. the air is thick and pungent, i'm suffocated. i can taste wet soil; the stench of damp rot and decay. 'not much further,' you say. i did not know you had a plan. we came upon a well, the crumbling stone; overgrown with ivy. i felt the wave of unease. 'look down it,' i did not hesitate to obey. it's so deep, is there something down there? you ask me to imagine falling in. but that is a game i will not play. i do not know at what point you let go of my hand. it must have been when i turned; you had already gone.
i look to you for validation. to do something. or nothing. to take it back forever; press the reverse button. we handle it, by not handling it, says the voice. my anxiety hops inside; like dried beans on a table jumping during an earthquake. a familiar tightening, a squeezing grip - a closed fist in my chest. i feel there is something i should be doing. i seek forgiveness that i do not deserve. i remember you, and worry what you’ll think.
a solitary hermit am i, in a dark cave i do reside, whilst they come to me in strides, so i might flatter all their pride, with the wisdom i’ve acquired. so long ago since i became, a much sort after humble sage, who dwells here in his lonely cage, whilst the people send me endless praise, for their spirits that i do raise. they seek me always for advice, on love, vocation and their life. they want not truth nor painful strife, for truth can cut just like a knife, so i just sing them sweet delights. “you sir, i see, shall be a king, and adorn bright golden bejewelled rings.” to these falsehoods they will so cling, and hang off every word i sing; oh the happiness my words can bring. merrily they’ll dance and skip away, without making a second’s delay, to tell the others of their day, and how the fates have finally swayed, and life’s debt to them shall soon be paid. oh when will these small humans learn, life is not responsible for their return, on everything that is not earned, and into my old mind be burned, all the falsehoods that i have churned.
i stand upon a chariot pulled by two beasts that i cannot unite. when they fight, we must stop. so much for riding in unnoticed. my neck and shoulders hurt; straining against the gold chains. "move forwards!" i plead. they ignore me; remaining at odds. i could not see a way out. the trees had been moving again. i could not see a way out. the snow fell heavily; the darkness smothered us. "why can't i have what i want?" because it is not yours, said the voice. accept it. i would not. they started to fight. shredding throats with scythe like claws. i doubled over in pain, never wanting to get up. "stop hurting us!" the beasts roared. i whipped them all the harder. eventually they collapsed; exhausted and bloody, foaming at the mouth. i lay down next to them, weeping. a knight galloped towards us, riding a gleaming white unicorn. he offered me his hand, when i went to take it he laughed and then scorned before disappearing entirely. my poor beasts howled. i stroked their fur gently dressing the wounds. "we'll try again tomorrow." and slowly they fell asleep, safe in the relief.
i found a vase with a flower i could not keep alive. i watered it with falling tears, it still wilted and cried. i sunned it with fake smiles, the petals continued to fall. i placed it on the windowsill so it might see outside. but still the colour faded, my flower did slowly die.
now, i anticipate the melancholy. when it fell apart every bit of it broke. i realised i was trying so hard to hold shards together. as i held on desperately, i started to forget the shape it used to be. my arms ached but i held on. how could i do what i needed to whilst trying to maintain structural integrity. and then i let go. every piece came apart and fell to the floor. as i let them drop i could hear the sounds of several shatters hitting the ground. it was over... or so i believed. i returned to the fragments, strewn across the room, and considered them. each piece unique. point to one, i'll tell you a story. i laughed. i cried. i started dreaming. what could i build? i found a pot of gold and got to work. it might not hold (i hope it doesn't) i may decide to change, what i decide right now.
such a delicate flower he held in his hand, the petals he crushed as if to take stand. their fragrance was sweet and felt like a cry; so gentle and vulnerable, the roses we find. do flowers have spirits, perhaps even a soul? nobody has asked this when cutting them all. who are we to assume, as arrogant as we are, that we alone have feelings when we destroy and command.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 