Something has changed. Either it passed or it never was real to begin with. Even though you felt the wind on your skin it isn't enough proof of substance. Substance doesn't slip through your fingers without leaving a stain. Maybe it was camouflaged. The way soldiers can hide in the sand. And if this is true,it's still hiding.

No one else has knowledge or can see what you see in the distance. Even standing looking directly into the sunlight when all the images walking towards you appear as shadows. When you thought you saw the lover of your soul walking into your life only to realize they weren't headed in your direction. They had already attended another ceremony a few miles earlier.

Emotions

Sadness, an emotional feeling
Brought by pain and sorrow
Hurt by life, no feeling inside
A cold heart pumping warm blood
Numb, mind with no Soul

by: Stephen Cone (my 15 year old son)

The thought of waking up one morning and the words parting my lips not matching the words running through my mind is enough to cause me to hold on tight. The mere terror of imagining droll streaming down my chin is frightening and causes me to continuously write my name on strips of paper and strategically hide them throughout the house. Sometimes I'm aware of the traffic scavenging through my mind looking for a corner to lurk and take root. Some have found fertile ground and have reeked havoc on things I once knew to be true. In fact, I would have placed my most prized possessions on their validity. Now I have more questions than answers simply because they once didn't exist. Their fabrication startles me. They are tangible and are not willing to disappear. They don't appreciate being ignored. Therefore, it isn't likely they will starve to death or even suffocate. They breathe on their own, they claim their own space, they say what my mind is unaware of.

Like wolves searching for prey to feed their young, women examine one another. From split ends to crusty heels to every chipped nail in between, they note. They sniff the brand of perfume and cosmetics for each other's value. And then the dance begins. Sisterhood is hung out on the line. This orchestrated display amuses me to say the least. Women derive some form of warped pleasure from the sport. And lurking in the background is some salivating male waiting to partake of the spoils.

The muck had covered everything. Whatever happened between then and that present moment made the water clean. For once in a long time both reflections matched. Even the morning coffee wasn't as bitter and the sunlight didn't sting her eyes when it parted the blinds. It was clear something had changed. Amazed, she now stood above the murky clay.

Should the walls one day happen to speak they would tell tales quite different from the ones told by those who have hid behind their covering. The art work on the wall would suddenly come to life and the characters would recite lines written in journals tied with red ribbons stored in the closet. The words would leap off the page waiting to be spoken on someones lips, to peruse somebodies tongue. These once nameless, lifeless characters would find the garments meant to be worn only on special occasions (infamous dinner parties perhaps) and put on the shoes still wrapped in the box. When evening would come they would step out into the night air looking for some place to dance until the sun came up again.

She's become accustomed to his detachment. She looks for other ways to prove whether or not he thinks about her even when he's promised he wouldn't. Of course, she has done the same, but the fixation apparently stands in concrete. At least for her. She may not even be the subject of his hallucinations or the accusations.

But it could all be a sign of how delusional she has become over the last past two years. Once satisfied with everything remaining the same, she now looks for them to change. There must be a reason stemming from some sort of discontentment with how the trees are securing the lawn, with the red bird no longer making an appearance, with the air smelling the same.

The answers haven't shown up yet. The insecurities still linger making the air stale. The seeds were planted some time ago. Unaware of their genesis it's impossible to explicate. The extremities reach every hiding place without an exodus. They loop back suffocating any desire to continue to ask questions. Will the solutions bring life to anything prepared to rot? When they walk into the room will it be too late to make a difference? Will they temporarily satisfy the appetite? Will they rest on the tongue long enough to change the direction of the air?

Speaking at the End

Hanging at the seams are the answers. The questions still lie on the table with the scraps. They are divided among those who will search for the unseen. The reasons why we walk upright. Why we reason on our own but still need a guide. The theories may not all fit. They may become just as much a mystery. But the questions mean more.

II.
No one is interested in the content--only the label and its size. Branded before time could finish the product. Unsure if the first half will match the second. In the meantime, the intermission is full. And the regret is bitter about the future.

III.
Requests, ones spoken desires. Some locked inside, left as a secret. They may not be legal in the sense of obeying laws, but they can reach a point in which they make their own laws. Taking on shapes and walking around searching for a fence to rest on. Seizing the moment, they disregard asking permission, abandon the rules of physics, and sweep up the crumbs that fall from the table.

IV.
No ones talking. This is a failed attempt to make it untrue. However, the evidence is on the table--their prints mar the walls. They would rather pretend it's some sort of illusion. If this is true, we must all walk around with the same delusions. How else can you explain the common emotions? Explain how pie taste sweet to everyone with a normal palette. Explain how summer is warm. Some things can't be packaged. They just show up at the front door as if they have lost their way, stumbling in the dark.

V.
The whispers are getting louder. They haven't found their way to their intended victim. The speculations blow wildly in the wind. The daggers are ready to pierce with fire.

VI.
Before you claim yourself you'll give your soul to another. Not sure if you are worthy to posses such freedom. The freedom to own yourself, to wear your own name. Not a slave to faith, but to those who die daily as you do. Those too vulnerable to die alone.

Sometimes it seems it's easier to pretend something is there when you actually know wholeheartedly there isn't. It's not like you can see the stirring in the trees or feel the heat on your skin. Rather it's similar to searching underneath the floor boards for what you have apparently misplaced. Yet it still hasn't reappeared and the light's dimmer than before. You begin to question has your mind played with you again engaging the emotions until they employed the other senses. Who knows how long this will continue? When the leaves change it'll be another year.

Shake my soul
Your voice she remembers
Like the ripples on the water
She will be moved

After the crows came
To peck at my flesh
Your shadow
Sealed the gashes

She will lap from the fountain
Bathe in the stream content
My heart will beat again
Covered in your words