A somber and rueful way to heaven if there ever was one.
The light touch. The soft breath of solitude. The crimson robes, sashaying in teasing manipulations.
The whispers of silence, punctuating the quiet moments of solitude and elective loneliness.
He gestures to the soft pillow and runs his hand across the scarlet fragments.
Gently. Lifting his head. Slightly.
He casts a forlorn look across the chambers. Empty except for a small collection of frocks, draped, discardedly, in the corner.
He sighed. Closed his eyes as if to wish away the tapestries of solitude.
He squeezed them as if to trap any happy warmth. Shushing, by the gesture, the maddening grasps of the original position.
Return to Chaos. Pathos.
Then, he released another whoosh. Slowly. With intent. Blowing the unseen breath into the air. Absent-minded.
His fingers tapped on the daisy. Thump. Thump. On the pillow.
Thump again… with his aquiline index finger as if …summoning some unknown power. chanting an incantation
Then, he relaxed. Almost in defeat. His eyes fixed on the sheets.
He gazed upon them, seeing through them all that he had dreamed of.
His nose picks up a scent. It was that scent. Vibrant. Mellow.
Angry, even, but also, cold and dreamy if…distant and empty.
He opens his eyes again. Wondering if this angry soul would ever stoop low enough to engage or high enough to understand. Futility. The language, forlorn.
So much hope…emptied in loneliness. So much deceit…couched in visceral affection.
So much hurt…delivered in the embrace of selfishness.
Strange. He thought, to assault a willing horse. Illogical. Revealing, even.
After so much, that he should be intimate with his own shadows and with such cold.
What is the point? He asked.
Silence. Just the echoes of his thoughts and the torture of the dripping tap.
Again, he called out. Whispered. His voice surprised him. It was faint. Almost drained of energy. Trembling in self-loathing.
He caught the scent again and smiled. The very presence.
The thought ran across his mind and enveloped him for a very absent aura.
His eyes, now heavy with sleep, slowly shut. He has the memories. He had hopes. He fell asleep.
Once again, in the cold arms of comfort and the hopes of a twined tomorrow, he smiled, wryly. Vacuously
The crushing misery of loving a silhouette.
He had made a choice. He only wished he could encircle the object of that choice. His lotus bundle.
Life. Like licking honey from a thorn. Perhaps, he hoped upon a rose without the thorns or to lotus a mud basin.
Pray to defang a scorpion when you cannot gild a lily.
Should be happy but, where is the joy of such emptiness?
Dreams. Ah! Yes. Dreams. All had his face in them. Only there does he genuflect. Only there, does he acquiesce.
Alas, even here, the drums hum my Pyrrhic victory and the transubstantiation of a mirage
Vexation of Spirit.