Burning Doves//Matthew Murdock

I

" Behind a velvet rope, we hide in plain sight

We're dressed in black smoke, and have our hands tied "

Emma didn't know hope.

Not now, anyway.

When it seemed naught but a fleeting glimpse of myth right behind the horizon.

Barely there, so far out of reach it taunted her with its dark fingers.

Here.

There.

She flew, a leaf tossed in the breeze, a speck of dust in a whirlwind of sand.

She was lost, without hope, without knowledge of who she was or where she was headed.

A wandering soul.

Broken.

Seeking reprieve from every dark corner.

From the pinch of needles in her arm, to the sharp blade against her wrist.

But nothing worked, not forever at least.

Because, without fail, the high would leave, the pain would cease and she would be brought back haltingly into the land of the dead.

Or maybe she was the dead.

A walking corpse, wandering among the living. There, but barely breathing.

Holding on with every last bit of strength to fading faith.

She learned as a child that one cannot hold onto light, no, one cannot hold onto light the same as one cannot hold onto darkness.

You cannot control it, they were a waving tempest, tossed to and fro on every fleeting whim.

You simply let it consume you.

Allowing the light to bathe you in its warmth and comfort, giving hope and life freely and in abundance.

But not the darkness, no, the darkness was the evil, the malignant beings that plagued her every footstep.

And she fought it, the darkness, with every breath she fought the dark obsidian that pounded at her mind. But with every failed battle she felt herself sink deeper into the mire until nothing was left of her but the shell of who she once was.

An addict.

A failure.

Burning in the own fire of her lies and pain.

Until she found it, soft and calm and beautiful. It reached out to her in its own broken notes.

And she felt herself breathe once more.

She was alive, she lived through every measure, every refrain, every crescendo and decrescendo.

It brought back the life she knew she once had.

The light that for so long had been extinguished.

It breathed within her new hope, a fountain of youth.

She was broken, her wings still clipped, but she could live. She could walk.

The small remnants of hope that had all but vanished, slowly bloomed like flowers in spring, timid, hesitant, but beautiful.

So she held on, with ever fibre of her being, to the one thing that kept her centered, that kept her alive.

Old, it sat in the back of her apartment, it's high back pressed against the wall, ivory keys yellowed and stained.

But it had survived past the darkness, just as she would live another day.

I know, I know, there are so many works that I need to continue and get finished, BUT I GOT INSPIRED AND I NEED TO WRITE THIS TO MOTIVATE ME MORE, OKAY?

I LOVE YOU ALL.