A vase of no extravagant, or distinctive design stood below the wooden stool, nothing particularly odd about it here; plainly, a flowerless vase placed, purposelessly, below the tall stool of a parish in France. Any parish would do, and so motion is set onto its' discourse and our little lamb, clad in a pressed shirt and tired slacks sits itself upon the stool. A lighthouse, an example, for the rest this is how you'll die alone.
Their tempter wore Sunday's best before christ, and a dozen pairs of hands braided together, followed blind, in absolute submission. opening up their pandoras box of dearest desires and, a dozen pairs of bruised knees on uncooked rice plead a thousand spells to make the pain go, go away. They say, wickedness can be punished. So it was. Punished.
Stale months passed, the kitchen mice shared their crumbs with our herd of lambs. Their feverishly scrawny arms following in suit of Urbain Grandier, scurrying to find the right voices for Gloria in Excelsis Deo. The hall fills with frail sounds of song, the frost of today's morning long gone instead the cold winter sun greets the noon and a crow or two gather, they biker upon naked tree branches. Until a flightless thing takes its place upon the highest branch, Ah! our lamb that doth not sing takes his acclaimed place and, the proxies fly away.
He sings his stories in the same way the pianist's hands play the keys of a black winged bird, with the same intensity, stress and desperation for a shared rhythm between the story teller and the room beyond themselves. To move flowers into the blooming season, dispersing their pollen across a field of butterflies. Playing to the sound waves of his own cords, than to those of will-less angels.
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon A Time, Time Stopped
PoetryDon't let your mind wander too far, for it will lose its selves - soul, thought and body. A soul that has lost its body is like a cat straying until it cannot pick up the familar scent of home anymore. It never returns, falling slave to a human God...
