In Silence
The spirit mourns a life that could have been but never was The trembling fist drops sweaty ice into the cloudy glass to follow it with a sacred splash; the glass is filled, the lips are kissed with fluid that soothes the spirit even as it burns the flesh The voice is silent; there is no-one there to hear; the only sounds: the rasp of strained breath, the distant drones of half-remembered songs and the refrigerator down the hall Pale yellow light washes over stained walls, the rumpled bed, and the cracked plastic face of a clock that ticks away the mournful hours and weary years before the dreaded dawn The body leaves the rumpled bed only to stumble through the door and down the hall to that refrigerator for another fistful of coldness to drop into the glass, to follow ice with a sacred splash of amber fire The lips are kissed the spirit soothed even as the flesh is burned and still, the spirit mourns a life that could have been but never wasjuly 24, 2001 Written March 2nd, 2002 © on Mar 02 2002 07:46 AM PST 10 • 0
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"The spirit..."