A moment of truth compels a greater bondage
than dozens of years of lies.
Night Visitors – Dream Scape
All week, anxiety has been building. An abscess
of memories that won’t heal. A sick belly that Maalox won’t
keep from churning.
Walking familiar corridors, the house is filled with
ghosts, memories of my own little demi gods wanting reverence
I can no longer give.
Sometimes whisper-like noise enters the room.
“Ancient Voices of Children” chanting together,
harmonic depiction of Winter’s broken heart. Quiet utterances
speaking at once … wind blowing in dry grass…
I have made many mistakes.
Dark wine, lucid recollections twisted
in my mind, some horrible, some less so,
communicated by the children of yellowed photographs, and old letters,
whispering songs, what I am, what I might become. Plethora
of strange options.
4:30 AM. George Crumb’s *timbrel essay paying homage
to Lorca and the haunting image of his poetry. As the
children speak, contrition swells and ghost memories
fade to black.