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.
god knows i suffer in the summer. the season doesn't invigorate me, i find it depleting. the new light disorients me and fulminating nature overwhelms me. the hazy air, thick with cut grass and pollen, like an invisible army endlessly assaulting my eyes and nose. it all begins in the spring, equally as melancholic. i sweat all day, but by night i am freezing. no sweater or shoe seem right for this temperamental time of year. every blow of my life has taken place in warm weather. the jovial laughter in chiffon summer dresses only remind me of the losses, betrayals and disappointment. the summertime inertia of waking up in bleached surroundings and having the distinct feeling of being inevitably pushed forward. but today is the weekend, i do not have to leave the house. i can wake up and not get up. there is nothing better.
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.
slowly, i move from room to room. standing. motionless. staring into the space. only my shadow moves with changing light. i want to lie down. i boil the kettle for tea, that buys me time. a watched kettle never boils. the familiar screeching jolts me back; that didn't feel long at all. a lump move upwards inside - best to ignore it. giving it attention gives it strength, allowing it escape as a scream. or something worse. what a waste. all those unsaid words. i had them well-planned. your ears remain innocent. what sort of power can silence without a gag? suffocated - but still breathing. perhaps you're a magician to pull such a clever trick. i'm convinced of your kindness, whilst i watch you sharpen your knives.
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.
will you chase away my sorrow, that haunts me in the night? the courage i must borrow to escape misery and strife. the darkness it covers me like a blanket of despair. the weight does suffocate me as i claw and grasp for air. the moon gives off no light; the stars have been blacked out. the fear does steal my sight leaving just pain and doubt. come play me your sweet music that lulls me back to sleep. the only thing that calms me, your lullaby to keep.
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.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 