"Let it go..." the lady whispers. "Let it out!"
Her arms wrap round my middle from behind. Twas good sport at our last meeting. The possibility of death at the hands of beauty was, put simply, both pleasure and honor. Now heart-pangs have engendered a more candid reckoning of inner struggles. Again we meet. Again I have put forth no effort to protect myself, for despondency holds my heart captive as no woman ever could. I have come with half a hope that she would end my suffering. Instead, this.
"Lady," I say, my voice thick. "This I will not unload upon thee. Tis not thy work. Thou art no beast of burden, but an angel at war with thine own inner light. I have done naught but evil concerning thee and thy kind. Separate thyself from me."
Her arms grow tighter. "Never, dear poet-warrior." A break I hear in her voice.
No! May sword and arrow pierce me through, no angel should shed tear!
"Lady! Please do not weep!"
I hear her sniffle. "What else may I do, dear one?" she asks, further tears evident in her speech. "Tis a broken heart and beaten spirit I embrace. How do I heal them of what has been done? How do I help one who has so little love for himself?"
I am wretched and shattered and burnt-up within. It hurts to have a heart. It hurts worse to have it awaken after attempted freezing. Would that an entire battered existence could be erased.
"A tendril of thy thought in the air I catch, O Poet," She says in hushed voice. "This thy wish, to be undone?"
"True, lady. Tis but sweetened agony I am given for to taste. What remedy have thou? Wilt thou use razor steel to give me blessed, eternal relief?"
"O Nay, precious soul!" she cries out, fully weeping now. "Live! Live for the sake of all you can help! I need thee here! So many need thee here!"
"I stay for thee alone, lady."
"Have a care, sir. Grief alone will such motive bring thee. Broaden thy perspective. So many hurt, much like unto thee. Empathy mayhap can bring healing as naught else. For their sake and for thine, shoulder their grief with them and find release from this, thy pain."
I find no answer. A long moment passes. The words I have long dreaded, she then speaks. Others of God's precious daughters have spoken the same in times past. The blade twists deeper with each new use of the words.
"I do thee no good to be here."
She removes her arms from around me. I turn. Already she has begun the trek to her waiting mare. At times, grace enables a poet to speak words of wonder. At others, grace disables my ability to communicate at all. Tis the latter I suffer now.
Fare thee safely, lady.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
The young man sits quiet at the travel crossroads. A tattered shirt, threadbare shorts, holey shoes, and a worn cap on his head are all he has with him. Not even a knapsack for the barest of necessities. His clothing says much. The look on his face says all. He has lost everything. Carriages pass him by, seemingly oblivious to his want. I have walked far, travelling without aid of carriage. The use of limb to make haste is more helpful than travelling in ease. It helps to quiet the mind, somewhat. Perhaps the lady is right. Perhaps giving aid to another will help me, in turn.
"Have you food to eat?" I ask him.
He shakes his head, looking dazed. I take my own knapsack off my shoulders, and pull at the leather drawstring straps to open it.
"I have hope that you are not averse to cold victuals." I unload the pack, setting out cold meat, a half-loaf of bread, some good cheese, and a flagon of cordial. He looks, mouth parted in astonishment, at what I have laid before him. Then looking teary up at me, he moves his lips in an effort to speak. He finally croaks out,
"Thank you."
A mere four days since the lady and I parted and my pain has already begun to subside. She had been right.
She is always right.
Adam Scott Campbell
No comments:
Post a Comment