One Last Thing To Do (and then...)

Image by Idhren via Flickr

In front of me, nature thrives. Miles of green. New leaves.
Behind me there lies Death. Vacuous nature of (the) Black.
It lies on the ground, leg precariously angled in pain. Crying.
From there to here runs a slacked cord tied to my soul,
Inches from the reach of the disfigurement.
From here to there is The Leap.
I followed my Path and it led to this ledge, again.
Many footsteps go back the way I've already come.
In fact, steps less full than mine--
Steps that were next to me not so long ago--
They go back.

So far, I've managed only to look over my shoulder.
I fear turning my body to feel the inertia of addiction.
My back is my shield.
Fifteen years of questions.
Thirty steps back into the fray.
Three feet from flight.
Seven years anew.
Threes and sevens, not fifteens.
So my mind has always said.
At 98 we all rotate.
In excess; time equal to thrice what others would have given.
I prefer words to numbers. Always have.
Maybe now I understand that she will never understand.
So lost from her Path that "good enough" led her back.
Her choice is my education, "good enough" is death.
Good enough is a numbers game.
Good enough is a product of the head, of logic.
Good enough is a heart that no longer beats.

I watched her go.
She looked back over her shoulder, as always.
No smiles, as never before.
She disappeared into the dark,
Soulcord tethered to The Black.
Unnecessary sacrifice.
For me.

Now I know, I wouldn't go back for her.
I'd only go back to give myself to The Black;
To understand the opposite of Love's Promise.
My creative curiosity sings. Input.
How can you know Good without experiencing Evil?
How can you know Evil without experiencing Good?
The teapot whistles and the train leaves.
The soup kettle boils and the earth erupts.
Both The Black.

I don't look for her any longer.
I watch The Black's chest rise and fall.
Heart not yet dead.
Dark eyes from deep sockets see right through me.
For how much longer, that is the question.
Sorrow for what was meant to be pours into me.
Except, it's not my sorrow, nor is it my dream.
My heads turns back to my fate,
And I know that a misstep on a Path thousands of years ago can be erased if I could simply...
Believe.

I don't have the energy left to Believe.

One last thing to do, yet I'm struggling to do it.
The flashlight inside runs my battery into desolation.
Even though she can't see me, she can still hear me.
The stone in my pocket warms the letter that I wrote--
The letter that I need to read aloud.
Words to mark the waypoint of one decision,
Nature records and remembers.
This place will be marred with a bad decision,
And that gives me guilt.
Children and nature rebound in kind--
Resilient life--
These are the things that I must remember.
Life hangs in the balance of black and white, live or die, a daily fight to be more than good enough.
We live among those who choose by good enough:
Good enough to fuck.
Good enough for government work.
Good enough, but not great.
All far-short; the broken legs of dreams.
Good enough fills time, a parry to boredom.
Dreams aren't filled by others for the lazy;
They are earned.

It is time to read my letter.
And then...

From the Blanket of Leaves You Die

Image by Paul Turgeon via Flickr

But what I want to say, however, I'm not going to say it because I don't have to say it--you know it--if you can still remember it, but I'm not sure that you're still there. THERE. Seems that you're lost without a trail of breadcrumbs to get back to your Path and the forest is dark, strange sounding and ominous... what's that strange, bad feeling you have, that crawling of the skin? A hand in front of your face: his? hers? mine? yours? We all know, but you can't tell. It's the hand that holds you down. A cry emanates from the darkness, yet you can't determine the direction from which it came, yet you pray for it to happen again because it sounds familiar--too familiar. And then, the thing you least wanted to hear... a million cries at once flooding your senses until you collapse, curled into a fetal ball, begging for the Leaves to bury you. There will be no evolution for your soul from There. You have to figure out how to get HERE.

(PURGE COMPLETE -- now I can write at work).

Wordz from Friendz IV

@karriespring said,

"Well, it is definitely your path (to write) from where I sit. But it's your opinion that really matters."

*HUG*