Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Foretelling - 1. Chapter 1 The Foretelling and Among the Ruins
The Foretelling
Softened snow streams,
like a determined runner’s sweat,
off the heated metal roof
caressed
by the recently reticent sun,
finally allowed to flex its power
It bursts a fiery orange
behind closed eyelids,
delicious D-laden rays
warming the thirsty skin
taut on my upturned face,
hastening the pulse of my blood
Gentle clay chimes wake and play,
tinkling notes next to my ear,
and that same breathy breeze
stirs un-hatted silvered hair
as I listen with fresh vigor
to the cadence of the lively drips
And for one glorious moment in time,
tantalizing that which waits deep within
A hopeful harbinger
wheedling into soul’s white slumber
with insistent sounds
and earth-sprung scents
Foretelling that Spring
has begun its design,
that unfettered life will emerge
and become riotous,
as awakening bees,
like us, welcome new industry
Among the Ruins
I cherish yon windmill on the hill
Resolute in its creaking spin
Once again able to move forward
As long as wind gives a purposeful push
What freed once-silenced blades
long locked against the elements?
Did Mother Nature bestow motion with a burst
so she could hear the music of her breeze?
It matters naught it wears an aura of ruin,
its patinaed tower slight canted,
one blade missing and another askew,
yet stubbornly proclaiming endurance
I can see my like upon that hill,
and can discern my flaws as easily
as those of that forlorn relic
once giving comfort to lives long gone—
Bringing water from the depths
of a stone lined well
barely concealed by rotted planks,
nature-woven weeds, and rusted bolts
But there the similarity differs,
for I did refuse to draw from the depths
of my own constructed well, serving as prison
for once-good memories tainted with pain
The bad ones, those served me better,
holding me firm against vicious battering,
because I was staunch in my belief
it was the right choice for me
Yet my stilled blades continue their protest
For old anger, paused at times like a frozen winter,
isn’t nourishment,
nor does it allow for peace amid any storms
Yes, exposure to the elements
can bring an unsettling, perceived danger,
but my prison walls are failing
because I am tired, and I yearn….
And confusing thoughts of you creep in anyway,
like the first time your hand covered mine
on the drive to the campground
You were driving, and my smile matched yours
And then later, heady months in,
those three, oft repeated words
mouthed silently by you,
easing my concerns across a music-filled loft
“Do you believe in life after love?” echoed,
and you collected and led me
to the thick-planked barn floor
You hated dancing, but you did it for me… for us
“Do you believe in life after love?”
Dear god, how that song defines me!
How fucking ironic it was to become,
to a man broken
And this, this! ... is how it goes for me
Spring turns to winter and back again
in a mere blink as those memories churn
in that soup of rancid sorrow
So much promise
became something wretched
and demeaning… alas… betrayal
yet still… I remember the Art Gallery
And how you had me pose amongst treasures
You told me I was as beautiful—imagine that—
and I believed your words—imagine that!
I always believed you
Until I couldn’t any longer
Because you took away that possibility
and gave me no choice but to retreat,
barely withstanding the gale of your onslaught
While chewing on unfathomable remorse,
I lost myself in a cold world of white
A years-long ‘winter of my discontent’,
alone in a place of rage and pain
Oh, my face played brave, and I functioned,
bent blades and all, mechanisms intact enough to spin,
but those good times had become the enemy,
refuse tossed in the deep to die
Yet, weariness wears as years have bent,
and you can’t abrade my heart anymore,
so I expect those memories can’t either
… if I dare return them to the fold
Like the structure on the hill,
there must be enough balance
for a thing to run unencumbered
I’m canted too, but I wish my blades to whir
While there is still time
I must be all I am
Allow the light, and even some fondness in,
and recall without rancor
The loving feel of your hands
and the murmuring of two hearts—
Yes—destined for breaking—
at least one of them—
But they did beat together for a time,
and I was happy
I shouldn’t keep that buried, right?
For isn’t love, no matter its death, the point?
Yes, mon Cher, there is life after love,
But it’s best we don’t kill what came before
Tendrils of a bitter past
need not choke the breath from us when faced
I can’t… won’t forget the betrayals
or the torture of the aftermath,
but power generates in this old man yet,
enough to forgive myself my follies…
…and reclaim that which has always been mine
Maybe, if you attempt contact again, I will answer….
this time
- 4
- 13
- 7
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Story Discussion Topic
Recommended Comments
Chapter Comments
-
Newsletter
Sign Up and get an occasional Newsletter. Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.