Tapestry

For my Father, The Trobairitz, and everyone who has supported me in the latest weaving. To sit and weave a tapestry Out of so many different threads Each pointing I their own direction, theme-less Like a spider’s web – half abandoned or directioned First you have the gold threads. The threads about them. But mostly about her. About my journey with this one-of-a-kind, A friend like I’ve never had before Who helped me grow by what I feel is no accident But she feels is by no design. Then I have the jet-black threads. The disturbing realities of my war unto myself, The victories, the battles, the wounds along the way. Where I stand now on this cyclical path There are threads of a deep bronze, Which return to the earth, Focusing as the Others did, On the Reality that surrounds them. Lastly, are the threads of a brilliant silver, High fantasy – the attempt to explain the mundane, And how it feels to fantastical to me. As it is woven, the threads intertwine, The colours begin to meld, Although a pattern is sought after, The loom occasionally misses a row. Although by no means perfect, This cloth is my latest. My history, my story. Let me weave it for you. GOLD I listen to her voice through the floor, The ceiling the same. The song she sings is one of peace, But also one of pain. I sit and I wonder, Who the song is for, The girl I am under, My own sweet Lenore. Yet she warns me from prominent Poe pretentiousness. Preceding prevalent punctual pungent proceedings. Of active alliteration, And raven references. She is not the character we think she is, Indie, with a touch of flair, She is a full person, and my friend, my compatriot. Finalement, laisezz-faire. Love internalized rots, Yet the treeline of the houses on the horizon stays the same, As do the changing tides. Ours is not a bond, easily broken. It’s been fun. JET BLACK I wear a suit of armour, invisible to the naked eye. It is not made of plate and steel, but rather intentions and belief It is pills in hidden pockets, bracelets to jingle and bring me out of the battlefield Confectionaries to distract the monkey in my brain and llama on my shoulder, It is this that makes up my accoutrements I also wield, precisely but not without consequence, A screen in lieu of a shield, to deflect blows that may rattle me Words and promises instead of a sword, keeping some at arm’s length, And some so close I forget where they begin and I end. This form is exhausting, but it is the way I need to live For now, while the battlefield continues to rage. DEEP BRONZE The train passes into the distance And leaves the bundle of destinined stars alone The sparks glow close to the ground, As mist wraps around freezing blood, With empty symbolism and meaning And a smear of self-deprecation cyclically brought on. Psycho-sematically brought on. The night’s silent screech, Of metal on metal, ceaseless to destination Ceaseless to clouds or silver moon To love or slight, or Nature. The night continues on. The Muse flits in the night. Happy to provide inspiration here and there, Not often in such high demand. The markings and scars, not quite skin deep So there is no payment quite yet. The night, as if cursed by dramatic language and confused tone, And openly declared falsehoods, Actions not undertaken (though thought of), but do not warrant a second. It is not authentic, but what does Nature care of the fleeting? It is constant, the chill seeping into the domain of all. Just as the warmth remains, cementing the day. Even in chrysalis, Nature is still present, if transformed. Though in new interesting shapes and relationships The blase realities do not change. To the night, each sound is a comforting lullaby – The call of the nightingale, the rumble of many iron machines, The shifting of gravel underfoot: each to return to the earth. BRILLIANT SILVER At a point in their journey, the Bard fell ill, and neither the Sage, Nor the Trobairitz knew how to aid him. There was no Medicine Man for miles, so they let the illness take its course. It seized the Bard’s mind, and warped and twisted it, Turning his prose to barbs, all thorn and no rose. It made the Bard’s stomach tie in knots, and expel often and thoroughly. When given healing herbs or sleeping droughts, it would only exacerbate the condition. It soon became that the Bard could not do anything – continue on their journey, Function, let alone do what he was Meant To. And so, while stopped at a campsite, the Sage and the Trobairitz tried their hand at a cure The Sage went first, and saw the Bard as how he was, but could not understand That it was an illness of the mind and heart as well as the body. He tried what all Sages try – logic, but alas to no avail, And the Bard grew more bitter. The Trobairitz tried next, and having seen this before, sang sweet songs and recited For the Bard. Her sweet melody and honeyed words brought the Bard peace for a time, But the Trobairitz wanted to continue posthaste, to put things how they were, Her prose became blunt and harsh, but well-meaning. It ceased aid, And the Bard grew more bitter. The Bard lashed out against his allies, those who sought to nurse him with misguided means, Cursed them for trying, cursed them for letting the illness take him. Seeing them and the illness as one and the same. With silence, they all retreated, the Sage and the Trobairitz, scorned, to plan for their journey, And the Bard to grow evermore bitter. As they rested that night, the Bard had feverish dreams, Dreams of empty plains and hollow songs, Of the Trobairitz and Sage betraying him, Of empty courts and laughing jesters, Of him being penniless, not a gold to his name. He woke with a start, fear gripping his body, but slowly and surely, Made his way down to the river to clean himself. As he peered over the bank’s surface, he saw for the first time in days his maw. He did not recognize the person reflecting back at him, with hollow eyes, a scowling face, Judgemental lips and words. Sensitive and agitated, with no desire to make himself better. He bathed in the river that night, and let the moonlight wash away his fear, He felt it rest in his chest, in his soul, and his Muse spoke to him “War not unto yourself” It was then that the Bard finally felt the illness begin to cease, Quickly becoming well enough to continue onwards with his compatriots. He apologized to his allies, nurses, companions, and begged their forgiveness. Which, they gave. They continued on their journey, the experience, ultimately forgotten. The illness sometimes does take the Bard, though never as bad as it once did, yet he is still algid When it does, the Bard remembers his Muse’s words: “War not unto yourself” And the illness recedes, and the Trobairitz and Sage are patient. Thank you.