No Bones.
Monday, November 10, 2003
The Proof is the Blood in the Rock
Mulieres cellam ineunt exeuntque loquentes Michaelangeli.
Will there come a time when I won’t understand what will go on and what must end?
Will I learn not to care as I grow cynical and old, and value my memories like silver and gold? Will I place a rake before I eat, with an inch or two between hem and sock? Will I long for time to spend with you when we can simply sit and talk? And am I lonely? And am I glum? Have the parts, apart, grown less than the sum? And does the creeping thing frighten before it intrigues? And are prayers’ becoming more honest as the evening recedes?
And the scent of a thousand days gone by, upon my pillow case. And the wrinkles of a thousand days, that crease my weathered face. And will you walk with me through memories of my youth? I’ll only need to explain a half of them. The times you haven’t seen, my muse. The things you’ll need to see. I’ll show you from behind myself and ask you to call my bluff. I’ll tell you what I’ve lied about and which of them are true enough.
And their will be time. Their will be time. To know me as I cry. And hold me in my laughter. There will be time, before we die, to kiss and to cuddle on lazy Sunday mornings. Laying quietly, legs intertwined. Aged past that time of physical passion and on to passion of the mind. The ferocity of your stare that will chill me to the bone as I breathe the fragrance of your hair. The only love I’ve known.
The windows have grown fat at the bottom and are aging slightly green. My eye glasses have grown thicker with time, and I’ll keep them nice and clean.
Will you frighten me? That pause in your rhythmic breath, as I watch you, late one night, while you sleep. Will I hold my own until you breathe again, fearing you leaving me lonely? Or will it be me who leaves? Too soon in either way? With years apart and missing you, or months or even days?
I’ll seek those hidden fortunes from the mystics in the dark and ask them to help me remember all those chess games in the park. As a lonely man, above his army, but short his mighty queen.
I’ll remember you. In that mirrored room, seeming inches off the wooden floor. The desire to dance, at once, with you as I watched you from the door.
We’ll laugh in the attic, as you wear that old hat, and tell me you hated that dress that I bought. I’ll count the times you wore it anyway and smile, as well, as you’re lost in your thoughts.
The creeping thing will come for us, settling the house as it grows. And I won’t be afraid. I won’t be afraid, as my time comes to a close.
And down the hall I’ll walk, one night, and pass a dusty mirror. I’ll catch my eye and turn to me and smile broad and true. And say, “You look like hell, my friend.” And he’ll say, “So do you.”
And the proof is the blood in the rock. The sweat that you give for the things that you love. The truth fits in the inch between hem and sock.
My words, my only currency? My final years a waste? I fight for some validity as I’m closing out the race. The days are done. There is no more time. And all this yet to come. Remembering my truths, my roots, and where it is I’m from.
Is their time? Is their time? Away from this for joy? Is their more than shallow nights of creeping things? And half asleep I love you’s. And sweat, and tears, and blood in the rock?
I don’t think so.
I hope not.
But I don’t know anything for sure.
I don’t know anything for sure, my love.
Short of that.
I think I did once long ago. I wish I did again. I wish I could remember the feel of the things that I’ve done. The smell of the places I’ve been.
The blood is the proof. The blood in the rock. Of the times we’ve spent on this earth. We bled it in life. We bleed it in death. We’ll bleed it again in rebirth.
The proof? The time. And we always have time. And time and time again. To meet for the first time in the attic, to laugh at the past. The time we then called when. Time before they pack our boxes and lock and close the door for the last time that we will ever know anything, anything at all, for sure.
That can be. That can be. Bravely, I face the time before I fall in love with you for the first time once more.
This time. The last time. And there is time. There is always time. To love and to learn. And to listen quietly to the creeping thing that has grown braver with time.
And to know, I’ve known love.
To know, I know love.
For that’s all I know for sure.
¶ 9:44 PM 0 comments
Mulieres cellam ineunt exeuntque loquentes Michaelangeli.
Will there come a time when I won’t understand what will go on and what must end?
Will I learn not to care as I grow cynical and old, and value my memories like silver and gold? Will I place a rake before I eat, with an inch or two between hem and sock? Will I long for time to spend with you when we can simply sit and talk? And am I lonely? And am I glum? Have the parts, apart, grown less than the sum? And does the creeping thing frighten before it intrigues? And are prayers’ becoming more honest as the evening recedes?
And the scent of a thousand days gone by, upon my pillow case. And the wrinkles of a thousand days, that crease my weathered face. And will you walk with me through memories of my youth? I’ll only need to explain a half of them. The times you haven’t seen, my muse. The things you’ll need to see. I’ll show you from behind myself and ask you to call my bluff. I’ll tell you what I’ve lied about and which of them are true enough.
And their will be time. Their will be time. To know me as I cry. And hold me in my laughter. There will be time, before we die, to kiss and to cuddle on lazy Sunday mornings. Laying quietly, legs intertwined. Aged past that time of physical passion and on to passion of the mind. The ferocity of your stare that will chill me to the bone as I breathe the fragrance of your hair. The only love I’ve known.
The windows have grown fat at the bottom and are aging slightly green. My eye glasses have grown thicker with time, and I’ll keep them nice and clean.
Will you frighten me? That pause in your rhythmic breath, as I watch you, late one night, while you sleep. Will I hold my own until you breathe again, fearing you leaving me lonely? Or will it be me who leaves? Too soon in either way? With years apart and missing you, or months or even days?
I’ll seek those hidden fortunes from the mystics in the dark and ask them to help me remember all those chess games in the park. As a lonely man, above his army, but short his mighty queen.
I’ll remember you. In that mirrored room, seeming inches off the wooden floor. The desire to dance, at once, with you as I watched you from the door.
We’ll laugh in the attic, as you wear that old hat, and tell me you hated that dress that I bought. I’ll count the times you wore it anyway and smile, as well, as you’re lost in your thoughts.
The creeping thing will come for us, settling the house as it grows. And I won’t be afraid. I won’t be afraid, as my time comes to a close.
And down the hall I’ll walk, one night, and pass a dusty mirror. I’ll catch my eye and turn to me and smile broad and true. And say, “You look like hell, my friend.” And he’ll say, “So do you.”
And the proof is the blood in the rock. The sweat that you give for the things that you love. The truth fits in the inch between hem and sock.
My words, my only currency? My final years a waste? I fight for some validity as I’m closing out the race. The days are done. There is no more time. And all this yet to come. Remembering my truths, my roots, and where it is I’m from.
Is their time? Is their time? Away from this for joy? Is their more than shallow nights of creeping things? And half asleep I love you’s. And sweat, and tears, and blood in the rock?
I don’t think so.
I hope not.
But I don’t know anything for sure.
I don’t know anything for sure, my love.
Short of that.
I think I did once long ago. I wish I did again. I wish I could remember the feel of the things that I’ve done. The smell of the places I’ve been.
The blood is the proof. The blood in the rock. Of the times we’ve spent on this earth. We bled it in life. We bleed it in death. We’ll bleed it again in rebirth.
The proof? The time. And we always have time. And time and time again. To meet for the first time in the attic, to laugh at the past. The time we then called when. Time before they pack our boxes and lock and close the door for the last time that we will ever know anything, anything at all, for sure.
That can be. That can be. Bravely, I face the time before I fall in love with you for the first time once more.
This time. The last time. And there is time. There is always time. To love and to learn. And to listen quietly to the creeping thing that has grown braver with time.
And to know, I’ve known love.
To know, I know love.
For that’s all I know for sure.
¶ 9:44 PM 0 comments
