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Poets of The Fall 2: Never Saw Another Butterfly
By
Shotgun011

Poets of The Fall 2: Never Saw Another Butterfly

Standing in the doorway feeling the wind blow as a cold rain falls that carries a trace of snow in it, as thoughts drift taking me back to when hopes were set high as eyes glanced, and locked as the measure was taken. With there being times it felt had been struck by sound across the face loud enough to drive choices from my head and being like one lost in time as either a fool or a chewed up bloody mess unable to count all of the words that were said. Knowing that behind all things of beauty there lies some sort of pain and some moments turn evil after their beauty fades, and there are times when half asleep I hear a voice calling and wonder if it’s in my mind from one I failed or left behind?

Just as the future sits there still unsure even after the cloak of winter has been drawn away as each new year arrives, which makes some feel as if they are on the run as they head into each into each new day and try not to look back. As things get placed in the hands of fate now and then, as all gets taken play by play as they try to live on the edge. With no one feeling responsible enough or wise enough to compromise and instead play that zero option game, which had me recall a conversation I overheard once near that dark courtyard in the north where the jesters reside. As a jester was calmly telling a thief about there being too much confusion and he needed some sort of relief from it, and the thief replied that the obvious tends to be lost as each day unfolds and if forgotten the way is fraught with danger. Like when the dark days draw near there might be times that might make one want to cry with tears like raindrops of pain, whispering like echoes as all gradually grows older and slowly gets greyer.

There is a portal between imagination and reality where all balances itself on the other side of reason while the planet weaves a cruel fate causing the loss of hope and respite for the soul as fate and history never deal in If. As swords are taken in hand once again, with each holding their own power in their hands as some fight for their survival, taking a stand with head held high they pass through bleak stares like a deer’s eye caught in headlights and passed by. And knowing that there is nothing but a vacuum that resides behind their eyes though they may look as if they are full of life. Which has me recall what makes me stronger when I am weak and unable to breathe easy as I close my tired eyes, and these are the times when those self-proclaimed saints quick to judge grin like the Devil does from ear to ear. While they wait to hold a requiem over me as they spout their “gospels” trying to befuddle both the fools and the sages.

Closing my tired eyes as I recall the way that your breath felt on my neck when we traveled down old Highway 61 and its sister Highway 51, as lines were crossed that took us into new territory as those old Highways directed us by the wrist where to go years ago. Remembering those eyes that carry in them a million mile reflection like the sea and these things make me stronger; making it all possible to carry the fight forward and ignore those echoes that can be heard when all gets greyer. And to be able to walk tall as I stand upon the square and if need be to shoot those bullets of fire that carry the truth, as I continue to frustrate them and their spare wheels or hangers on by not turning my back to the bull as he charges.

Turning my collar to the cold and damp and smelling winter snow in the air as shadows are felt, as I still wonder if I should believe those lines that are there on my hands as I see the web between my fingers? Which holds all that I truly have and have had as I notice the scars I carry the sun’s dark light wouldn’t heal, and I think of the Girl from The North Country Fair as the shadows begin to fall, and I know all I need do is kiss the rain; to send a message to her there on that island that has become known as Shadow Country or the North Country Fair. Which has become a place that rivals those Highlands I carry with me and can Touch The Earth.

Standing here in the wind and the rain and feeling as though I hear the strains of Handel’s Sarabande, knowing that sticks and stones might break my bones I place my hand on my heart to take a stand knowing there is hope. Hope which like the truth is eternal or how, or why would the Damned in Hell be able to dream of Heaven and their release? With there being times when the world can be put to right by a blinding light and with no shame I kneel and state my case. Faith can move mountains while fire can cleanse your soul and mind over matter won’t stop on command, as those self-proclaimed saints quick to judge spread lies disguised in the form of trust like the Blind Organizer does. While I look at him and his ally the Jealous Monk in the eye and see how their hands shake as they lie.

Even if darkness falls at noon, I know that the lamp of laughter is still lit and reflected in a silver spoon. Though at times those wasted words they spout from their gospels that are found hastily scrawled on walls, and sometimes find their mark. Though most are dodged yet, they continue to dodge the bullets of fire from the snipers in the hills, which tear through the fabric of things that they hold dear and sacred like the revisionist history they love to hear. Still they know nothing of life and the way it’s nasty, brutish and short and to suffer makes one stronger to go forward.

Just as the Jester who carries fire and ice in his eyes and the Girl from The North Country Fair have known it would, as I close my tired eyes and see her eyes and the million mile reflection they carry as I turn to head in for the night.

Copyright July 2010 – 3: Timberwolf International LTD.

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Copyright © Copyright Timberwolf International LTD. All rights reserved. Copyrighted and protected under the copyright laws of both The United States and of The United Kingdom. Under U. S. Code Title 17 § 204. No unauthorized duplication by any means including electronic, or copying may be allowed unless permission is asked for in writing and permission therefore granted by the author or copyright holder, or his/her agent. In writing and signed by the owner of the rights conveyed or such owner’s duly authorized agent. And duly witnessed by his or her representative or duly assigned agent. Under penalty of copyright infringement or intellectual property theft. All violators will be prosecuted.

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