Walking in shadow,silence surrounds her.
The will of the wisp on midsommer night.
The only one, the nomad, wanderer.
A vapor.
Breeze in your hair and the wind that touches you, fingers caressing your face at dawn's light.
Oblivion and darkness, the crushed rose underfoot.
A vision in the corner of your eye.
The comet across Black sky.
The brass ring on the carousel, the lost doll in the dust at the end of the day.
An untended flower in the garden, now grown over, and strangled by the weeds.
Invisible, untouched, the forsaken.
The rusty compass with no needle.
The broken weathervane at the top of the abandoned barn, which long ago lost all direction.
A name tag still on the table, long after the party is over;
and all that remains is glasses of untouched wine and half-ragged streamers.
The uninvited and the first to leave.
Fog on a lonely sea, the siren that beckons sailors into eternity.
The one that got away.
The freedom you screamed for and the darkness that envelops you once you find it.
Only known by alias, and not known at all.
The great mystery, the enigma, the damned one.
The mirage on the distant highway, as you go on, unguided without map.
The unholy in the confessional, seeking penance and asking forgiveness.
The sinner and the saint.
The silent one, the still, the immovable object, the unseen force.
Dwaallicht.
The guide to the other side, the boatman, the keeper of the key, last of kin.
Gifted with word, but not of life.
Hi-ho, the derry-o, the cheese stands alone.
©2007∞Copperhead
Oh Charon! "My Charona" (The Knack 1979), you silly boatman you. You are certainly gifted with word and so the rat takes the cheese, nurse or not.
ReplyDeleteWell...I am the cheese; and I certainly have known plenty of rats ; )
ReplyDelete