Thirteen days and seven ways to end it all forever. Seventeen years of good morning's from voices that didn't wish what they said - and that was all that really mattered. Three thousand and twelve inches of rain that soaked her shirts, ran off her umbrellas, and matted her hair to her face into the sort of oddball frame you may find at Value Village on a Tuesday afternoon.
Three chords on six strings play one song on four continents. It's a hit! It's a smash! Congratulations, well done, we know your name now - we know your name. You haven't really spoken to us, you haven't really changed us, we don't know what you've done - but we know your name.
Four voices in paragraph daily, document the last 24 hours and we'll dialogue six times or until we've broken the record. Personal best - yes, thank you - that was very good.
A cello somewhere echoes ghost's voices of fog on the moor and mystery in the night. They go together: beauty and the cello. Bend over your frame and feel the vibrations, drift with your notes, does it speak to you? Have you ever played your cello in the rain? On a dock that rocked with the passing wake of the midnight ferry? I wish you would.
I wish many things. I've wished upon the stars. Do they wish on us? I thought they came true - but- maybe they still will. There is still time. When you shout at the night sky, is all lost to the dark? Someone hears - but how many? Do the angels really cry over us? Does anything so beautiful and so close to God even begin to feel pain or know the meaning of sorrow?
And what do you mean, when you say forever?
The musings, laughter, anguish, and tears of a Stickman living the life drawn for him by the Artist. "I must learn to serve the Artist first, His pen directs my path. He breathes life into these worn-out sticks, And stickmen will see at last."
About Me
- MRJ
- Poor. Student. Firefighter. EMT. Kind. Optimistic. Shy. Dreamer. Fool. Happy.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Somewhere someone closed their pocketwatch; somewhere someone couldn't restrain a cough; somewhere someone clicked her tongue; and there were footsteps on the stage.
"Did they like it?" and the conductors baton fiddled nervously against his leg.
But sometimes people are so impressed, the thought of applauding never occurs to them.
And they sit and enjoy now, knowing they will return to contemplate this moment again.
*Applause*
Reading it again, a few days later, I still like it. It's modern art.
Post a Comment