Love for sale is
all she sings of. I hear it over the airwaves drifting hauntingly up the
stairs. The function of my mind has fractured and words, dull and
meaningless seep out. There exists always the fear that this will become
a constant state of being. For too soon we find our place in the world
only to lose it again. I have never known exhaustion such as this.
Dreams have an unnerving familiarity about them, lead me to, when
waking, question their veracity. Is this my reality or myth. A creation
of an overactive imagination. No one answers when I call out to the
emptiness of the night. Someone has left the search light on outside, it
shines into my bedroom. How can I be the one they are looking for. I am
too grown and my sex is all wrong.
My romanticism drifts aimlessly looking for a shore on which to anchor itself. Sacred voices lilt between trees on a cold March morning, wafting through a deep set mist that has not lifted for days. Our feet are damped by steps towards the cemetery where remains lay untouched and unloved. We do not convene here for purposes of morning. The sun has yet to break the sky, to crack the atmospheric stance the clouds have assumed. Deep and rich plumes of emptiness. We forget the electricity contained with. We are all a source of kinetics. My movements are considered, poised, in my attempt to retain a dignity not afforded to me. Around my ankle rests the burn and bruise from the shackles of spent love. They have prepared the long boat, I heard this said, decked with garlands of meadow flowers and dried dead wood from the silver birches field at the end of summer.
We were innocent in the heat, draped in love and secrecy.
Confession. Father. Hear my confession. Do not turn your face from here towards the skies looking for answers that you know, soulfully, will not come. Do not seek the woman who bore me to offer your solace in her arms, they are spent with the weight of another. Do you not listen to her words when she sleeps, the sound carries along to where I lay as clear as the bells calling me to church. Faith belongs in flesh not matrimony. Some lessons are learnt too late but I have practiced forgiveness and offer you mine, untainted, without condition. This is love.
What words would I part with, if I held no fear of shame in my mouth. Do they need be said at all, for I have seen you at midnight, stood sentinel at my window. It is too late now, too late to charge as my saviour. The damage has been done. Punishments have rained down in heavy blows against sanity and skin. Only the scars remain and you confuse the perpetrator for she look and sounds identical to me. Puppeteers have passed, by the marionette still dances, like a limb still moves even when severed from a body.
I walk slowly, through fear and concentration. Finally, in this moment I have learnt the art of mindfulness. My tongue explores the taste of air, of possibility that exists even when we believe there is none. Smoke rises in the distance, they have lit their torches in readiness for the burning, in readiness for my skin to flail from my bones in some exotic dance. For them this is the ending.
We choose only to see what we wish to see.
Death is not an ending when we are still breathing at the core, this is not my first, second or third exodus. I have parted from my body every night in your absence under the ferocious gaze of another. But see me. I am still here. I am reborn. Our parting of ways occurred only to serve our reunion. My own voice spurred the inquisition, my own declaration of guilt, though innocence quelled the spilling of further blood. My own. I am not a martyr. Hold me in no esteem.
Only love me as you do, as I see through the thinning fog and emerging daylight. Dawn, in all is glory plays out its role for me. Offering passion diluted before midday draws me close to the flame. Watch me Daddy I am dancing. Love me for now, I long to be loved, across the divided expanse of wasteland, stitched with my inexperienced hand. The Spanish guitars are playing. Walk not behind in grief for what we have lost, or ahead leading me to where you believe safety awaits. My destiny is my own, uncertain and open for interpretation. Walk with me there, to the harbour where I set sail, aflame in all my feminine glory, walk with me as an equal, sexless and free. As a father and daughter, as we are written upon my heart to be.
Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2013
My romanticism drifts aimlessly looking for a shore on which to anchor itself. Sacred voices lilt between trees on a cold March morning, wafting through a deep set mist that has not lifted for days. Our feet are damped by steps towards the cemetery where remains lay untouched and unloved. We do not convene here for purposes of morning. The sun has yet to break the sky, to crack the atmospheric stance the clouds have assumed. Deep and rich plumes of emptiness. We forget the electricity contained with. We are all a source of kinetics. My movements are considered, poised, in my attempt to retain a dignity not afforded to me. Around my ankle rests the burn and bruise from the shackles of spent love. They have prepared the long boat, I heard this said, decked with garlands of meadow flowers and dried dead wood from the silver birches field at the end of summer.
We were innocent in the heat, draped in love and secrecy.
Confession. Father. Hear my confession. Do not turn your face from here towards the skies looking for answers that you know, soulfully, will not come. Do not seek the woman who bore me to offer your solace in her arms, they are spent with the weight of another. Do you not listen to her words when she sleeps, the sound carries along to where I lay as clear as the bells calling me to church. Faith belongs in flesh not matrimony. Some lessons are learnt too late but I have practiced forgiveness and offer you mine, untainted, without condition. This is love.
What words would I part with, if I held no fear of shame in my mouth. Do they need be said at all, for I have seen you at midnight, stood sentinel at my window. It is too late now, too late to charge as my saviour. The damage has been done. Punishments have rained down in heavy blows against sanity and skin. Only the scars remain and you confuse the perpetrator for she look and sounds identical to me. Puppeteers have passed, by the marionette still dances, like a limb still moves even when severed from a body.
I walk slowly, through fear and concentration. Finally, in this moment I have learnt the art of mindfulness. My tongue explores the taste of air, of possibility that exists even when we believe there is none. Smoke rises in the distance, they have lit their torches in readiness for the burning, in readiness for my skin to flail from my bones in some exotic dance. For them this is the ending.
We choose only to see what we wish to see.
Death is not an ending when we are still breathing at the core, this is not my first, second or third exodus. I have parted from my body every night in your absence under the ferocious gaze of another. But see me. I am still here. I am reborn. Our parting of ways occurred only to serve our reunion. My own voice spurred the inquisition, my own declaration of guilt, though innocence quelled the spilling of further blood. My own. I am not a martyr. Hold me in no esteem.
Only love me as you do, as I see through the thinning fog and emerging daylight. Dawn, in all is glory plays out its role for me. Offering passion diluted before midday draws me close to the flame. Watch me Daddy I am dancing. Love me for now, I long to be loved, across the divided expanse of wasteland, stitched with my inexperienced hand. The Spanish guitars are playing. Walk not behind in grief for what we have lost, or ahead leading me to where you believe safety awaits. My destiny is my own, uncertain and open for interpretation. Walk with me there, to the harbour where I set sail, aflame in all my feminine glory, walk with me as an equal, sexless and free. As a father and daughter, as we are written upon my heart to be.
Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2013
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