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A vision stands at the end of this passageway;
something so fair and
so light that by no means is
the darkness
allowed to possess it;
it is like the stars
and the moon
in the clear night sky,
a beacon,
a light,
a vision.
Perhaps it is the vision of youth,
of forgotten youth,
of the loss of youth
that makes it so
appealing,
but as it stands there
the apparition looks
as if an angel
minus the wings.
The soul that exists in that hallway,
she is no apparition,
nor is she a vision,
nor is she a beacon,
she is, however,
a million life times
all stored under
one skin;
a million memories
is she,
all lost to one form.
She remembers a time
not too long ago;
it was a time of carelessness,
of freedom,
of running wild,
of love,
but tonight she weeps.
What is it that is so mournful
speak, speak bright angel
a thousand words will heal
a thousand natural shocks
of flesh,
of heart
of soul,
the wind will list to your
heartbreaking story;
tell your tale of woe.
A book, one held in your hands
the words give the time
the pages give the tale
the marks upon it
echo the marks it left
upon your heart.
Burns and cuts
wounds that run too deep
beautiful angel,
speak again bright angel
tell of your strife,
of your trials
of your consequence
Another's handwriting
it lines your pages
equal to your own
in thought,
in pattern,
in passion,
then suddenly it is gone.
For years as it seems
this dialog continues
between the two scripts
but suddeness
robs the pages
and so begins
the pain,
the hardships,
the trials,
the consequence.
The girl is gone now
the tragic angel emerges;
is this why
no wings come from
your shoulders?
All happiness was stripped
as the dignity
to hold ones head high
was severed from
your being;
oh tragic angel
how do you not weep?
Are there no more tears
left in your heart,
your soul,
your flesh,
to weep even once more?
Angel, standing alone
as the darkness envelopes;
dare your pages
betray any more
to what came next?
The pages hault;
they cease for now;
the ink is terrible,
terribly degraded;
were you too?
Tears fill the pages,
the poor ink runs
but it cannot
escape the pages;
it cannot mingle;
it cannot better itself
until suddeness comes
and robs the pages
once more.
Angel, how do your
knees
not buckel under
all this weight?
That of a heavy heart
heavy soul
a darknened past?
Tell no more, Angel,
of your story;
it is understood
but you
now
haunt these
forboding halls,
waiting,
watching
for light.
Angel, you are
the light at the
end of this
dark hall;
the light at
the end of my tunnel;
let me return
and write in
your book
once more.