I see her.



She pays me no heed, moving like the mist in her robes of blue and white.



My voice doesn't touch her, though it cracks from wear.

Pure and perfect, she walks on, feet bare.



I see the thorns around me, and the wind shrieks;

But she laughs like they're roses, without care.



Her robes are tearing, a little, and at times more;

And I see her bleed.

She walks, I follow.



Torn and tattered, shorn and shattered;

She's frail as the glass under her feet;

Her hair is white.

I cry for her pain.



The salty drops burn my skin, and I need no mirror

To see proof;

I know I am yet walking behind her.



Faster we move, strangely she gives me strength;

Perhaps it is only my curiosity.



The forest is gone now, not a thorn in sight.

The night has faded, song welcomes the cheery light.



I take my eyes off her broken form;

As broken as mine.



To glance in wonder, the change sublime.

I feel the sun, the grass under my feet;

The frost has been lifted, quite like a sheet.



I know that face, when she turns to me;

It is a face that I have seen, staring defiantly

Back from panes of silver that gleam.



Her laughter is clear, her hair like silk

The glow in her form, moonbeams in milk.



Pure and Perfect, she is once again.

She walks by me, rest from this game.

"Who are you?" I think, "Healing as a Spring day."

"I will be here," She speaks,

"The longer you allow me stay."

"For gratitude," I beg, "Tell me your name."



Ethereal and binding, warmth radiates;

Engulfing, lifting me, as a feather on air.

Burdens of kind, weighing me down, disappear.



A rush of cool air, a burst of song;

A smile on my lips.

She kept, she left me strong.



Hope.

Smoke Screens and Lost Dreams

Image by Dave Barstow

The wind cools the sweat on my skin. There are goosebumps.

My bare feet complain at the scratchy gravel under them, but it’s not an immediate concern.

My hand rests on the nearly smooth surface of the low brick wall. My thumb absently brushes at the top.

A waft of white smoke warms my face. The tingle of nicotine on my lips feels good. I take another drag off the cigarette, and enjoy the burn of smoke coursing through my throat and lungs.

Blowing smoke rings is not my specialty, but I try, tilting my head backwards and aiming one at the stars.

It’s a cool clear night. Perfect to be out star gazing.

Or thinking.

Mentally I shrug, what’s the difference?

I chuckle at a joke I remember from TV, little puffs giving the effect of slight coughing. I had coughed through my first cigarette.

Never coughed through another one. It was surprising, I should have been in a bed, wired to tubes, but here I am, thinking about nothing at all.

Sounds of late night traffic float up to me. At this height, it looks like tiny toy cars zipping below.

I am not entirely sure what I want to do, but I find myself swinging one leg over the wall, then the other. I get as comfortable as I can on the ledge. I was never afraid of heights.

The city is alive and buzzing. I gaze out at the lights and traffic. I think I may have started up on my next smoke, but who cares? I lost count years ago.

If I twist my head around just so, I can see the pale sliver of the moon, waxing? Waning? I stare at the moon a little longer, then turn back when my already stiff neck protests.

I absently rub at my neck, leaving the cigarette to dangle precariously from my lips. It’s stuck there by drying saliva on paper. I decide to test exactly how long it will stay that way. I think I may be squinting to get a look beyond my nose.

I smile at the image that brings up, and lose the battle to leave the ciggie hanging. I grab at it, then realize, that the position I am in is not exactly a good one to be making sudden moves.

I use both hands to grab onto the ledge, and stabilize myself once again. Sweat has broken out on my forehead, and I know it is from the adrenalin and then the endorphins produced by fear and thrill.

It feels great when I realize that I managed to stay on, although only just. The ciggie didn’t make it though. Poor little thing, died before it’s time.

I think it may be just too disrespectful to cross myself over a cigarette.

“Death to smoking!” a little righteous part of me yells and raises a triumphant fist, the fist changing to something decidedly rude, when a replacement has found it’s way back to my lips, which I wisely lick beforehand.

These damn death sticks cost a lot.

The tang of nicotine is on my tongue, and it’s turning bitter. I think neem leaves taste something like this. I’m not even sure how I know what neem leaves taste like.

I’m back to thinking about nothing at all, my fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on the wall. I love to pretend that I know how to play the piano. I took classes when I was a kid. I’m not really sure why I stopped.

I hum a perfect Allegro Vivace. I’ve always been good at remembering music, though my brain refuses to remember my birthday. I have never told anyone how deeply I am moved by music. Somehow I consider that a useless talent; Knowing the exact pitch, knowing what is good music, knowing which tune can make a person overwhelmed enough to cry.

Sure as hell doesn’t pay the bills.

So I’ll always wake up in the morning and do something no one appreciates and I sure as hell won’t remember once it’s done.

I think about the day I won’t do that crap. The day I just up and walk away, to follow whatever it was I gave up, one more time.

I’m somehow afraid that the day I don’t wake up may come sooner.

The more I think of this, the desire to go after the lost cigarette is getting stronger.

The lights down below are hypnotizing, I need to look at them a little longer to actually define the effect they are having on my nicotine-rushed brain.

A shrill ringing almost makes me fall off again, and I instinctively grab on to the ledge, scooting backwards and out of danger.

I’m not sure if that move made me relieved or agitated.

The damn phone is ringing like the world is about to end, and I decide to valiantly ignore it for another minute. They’ll call back anyway.

I’m not sure if the bell saved me, or put me in danger. I shrug. The whole thing is moot point anyway.

I swing my feet back onto the balcony, before third time becomes the charm. I’m just making my way back inside when the phone rings again.

Told you, they’d call back.

Broken.

You wanted to see, that part of me

Defeated and devoid of emotion entirely.

Here it is, see the liquid crystal pour

And fall to a shimmering pool on the floor.

Are you pleased, are you satisfied?

That last remaining hope in me destroyed

So utterly broken, here I kneel

No little, nor speck of joy to feel.

Have you laughed enough, have you cried?

With mirth overwhelming you like a tide

For I weep with a heart broken beyond

What repair possible, with no peace found.

Unable to live, not coward enough to die

Damned to suffer more, for my foolish pride

Is your cruelty tamed enough to see,

How utterly your pride has shattered me?

Do with my wretched soul, as you will

I have no faith to fight you still

But when you’re sated with crushing me

Have mercy, allow my death a little dignity.

Sreedevi.