Somewhere within an eternal silence, untouched,
enclosed within soft watery perfection, where the turbulent waves of the
surface can never touch you, where the shore is left unwashed, she watches you.
The face in the clock, the hand in your hand, the voice that whispers upon your
ear and plays upon your senses. She is there.
When you hear choirs singing, her voice is one of
the whole; in waterfalls of music she is but a note. She is a certain
expression on your face, the glint in your eye, a gasp in your breath.
Close your eyes. In darkness you see her. Alone you
are aware of her presence. As anger grows she burns within you. With passions
she caresses.
Where will you fit in? To which degree of the
compass will you fall? You dream you shall be in the orchestra; you will be one
of the voices; you shall have a part to play, a song to sing. Mirrors show us
what we want to see, but sometime we look into the living, human mirrors and
then, briefly, the fantasizing has to stop. Real life intrudes, your dream is
over, the interlude is past. She has slipped away like mist in the wind. The
hand moves round the clock, passing fragments of her face. As flowers stare
towards the sky – blind, an empty and horrific glare, she fills the space with
sight, makes sense where none can be found. There is no answer, no explanation,
on the surety of her continue existence. Whenever you turn around, she’ll be
there, just a step behind you. She’ll be your support, the only one you can
ever rely on, though contemptuous words of her slip from your lips, splinters
of insult – lean back, she’ll catch you.
She’ll always be with you till the day you pass on,
have a different guardian angel –
-
If life can really be called that.
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