Saturday, March 26, 2011

The Woman On The Hill

In every crack inside the rocks I found whispers screaming, like tired tongues they almost spit, quickly stitching up their lips. I never heard them laughing.

"I do not speak of great things like love," she said, the woman made of darkness that broods upon the stones, "I do not speak of murder, passion or the way a human dresses up as if it will help them find a reason. I only talk of small things lost, early in the evening; minds before a sip of scotch, or hearts thrown into the jaws of beauty on a first date masquerade. It's these little charms that keep one searching for something more to say. And you have come because you lost your virtue at dusk; a trophy in my treasure house of human puzzle pieces. Tell me this is not what keeps your heart beating?"

In every space between the clouds I heard a sigh that exhaled days of sunless make-believe. Like a dead gaze, eyes almost burned like UV rays, quickly fade into gray - I never saw them blinking.

I spoke;

"I no longer speak of love, nor murder either, and my passion has grown into a malformed pet I keep hidden within, that I must feed with a meager supply of faith. I care no longer for pretty dresses or painting eyes with jaws that devour these hearts by you mentioned. But it is these great things, simply put, that sometimes steal the precious charms you speak of from another unsuspecting person. Not everything gone is lost. Some things are taken. And these things cannot be sought. My heart beats because I am alive, that is the only reason. I have nothing more to say."

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