I am old news. Once my pages were not thin and worn, but crisped the fingertips with mystery and stories yet to be read. My writing was not worn; the strokes, unblemished. Like a crunch and crack of a bite into whole fruit, I invited you without even knowing. Now, my quickening has ceased and it does not matter that the way of all things ushers it so. Your eyes seek newness, and a bloom of words on the tongue that I cannot strike. It seems my stories have become withered, unlike our hands that I hoped would stay clasped until we were old. They shake before our time, Dear Heart. Loneliness was not a familiar guest in my modern pages until moments ago, in our time. Yet, it warms my cup now and nestles in, as two friends who continue a conversation of yore. It knows milk and no sugar for me, lights a fire in the brick, and begins to read the familiar stories in my pages of which IT never tires. Mysteries must be zigs and worlds of zags, it seems. Else, they reek of an Old Queen's blankets and her luggage rides heavy. Wisdom flees in this light and recedes backward, away from us, you and I, leaving two children one with outstretched hand, the other with Janus's eyes looking into two. I want for you though you are near me. My heart aches to hold the whole of yours again. You think I do not know. You think I do not. You think. Nevertheless, I refuse abandon the sojourn. I am. I am still the one who will remain, my love, though I recognized many times ago that it is my place to never be too far from sorrow. Yet, in these moments it came in your letters, quite unexpected. The base and bulwarck of my feet and hands shook. Convincing the doubt is monumental. It was thought these things had passed this in life. It was a happy, forgotten time until the ghosts and shadows crept into my parlour unannounced, and sat in your chair. I am. You may see. For without it, my heart is sad. Of your bread I eat the crust and the whole, the heel and the loaf. Yet, there is always sorrow. It greets me in passages of words you speak without my ears hearing. Angst both wild and alarming that never stumbled leaps around my room with abandon, sounding its klaxon and shrill shriek of fear. I never thought again, it would find me. I did not even think I need run. Yet, the Raven's promise of Nevermore shattered all to pieces like so many shards of sun-weathered, plastic bowls, and faded yellow rooms. I pondered over you, never forgetting your lore. But mine no longer vibrates and hums beneath the veil. It lies still in your eyes though its pulse runs as sure and fast as ever. It needs your recognition to live, and with every moment of loneliness, the heart of it creaks down a stairway of hidden sorrow. I no longer am. I am old. I am past. I have always known that I would be never too far from sorrow. But your inscription of it stings, my love. We sit still and dormant, waiting for the spring's return of a fortifying new grace. URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2012/07/the-creakings-of-door.html

In the waking world of the morning, I do not know all of that which seethes in the burgeoning gale of your mind. As the winds stir up, I feel it though. Mind you nothing of this, for it is a willing thing because of my love for you. I do not ask, nor do I wish for all to be revealed. It is of regard, but not vital. One only knows that you only need to recline into me and I will hold you for seconds, or an eternity . . . even an eternity wrapped into seconds. It does not matter. I would take the seethings from you upon myself, were it possible and purposed. You are too beautiful to me to suffer in any form, Still I gladly share the link that empathy provides, because I may do nothing else in my house far away. You guard against letting it go, against letting the tide wash over you, over us. You know if the waves are unfettered, even for a moment, they might wash us to places from which you may be late on the returning . . . scurrying backward, until the clock screams that it is late. I understand these things and take your hand, still. Simply to say "yes" to yes . . . to the little girl that lives in you, The one who smiles, gets scared, and knows nothing of the woman you are, and how you protect her from the waves that wash away, leaving her bare. I cradle that little one behind my closed eyes, in safe rooms, whether you are aware of it, or not. These things are done simply. They live in those moments of the day, the ones which speak with boisterous silence, the words we both know. That thread? The bare, clinging string that holds it all at bay? It swings on a pendulous course, neither good nor bad. It exists because you wish it, and that is enough for me. Yet, never forget in the moments of fever-pitch swirling that I love you. Granted, this alone is not a treasure, nor am I a great woman. Nevertheless, if being loved unconditionally is at all a laudable thing, you are to be commended. I love you in this way and so many others. Throughout timespace and many oceans, it has been as such, and will be until Existence destroys even the Nothing. -Gypsy For J.M.J.P. -- My Muse, The Moon that Warms My Heart, and Companion of Many Lifetimes. (Original title, "For Piglet") URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2014/12/for-piglet-in-waking-world-of-morning-i.html

I hear you say, I am beautiful. We have years of love and a journey stepped side-by-side. Our faces have changed slightly in reflection, and the mirror deals a different card to the soul. Then there is you. You say I have helped you bloom. You look at my body with want and desire, saying you do not share my misgivings. You too, say I am beautiful. Yet, I see the tide coming in and wonder if it will sweep us offshore away, drifting everforth, apart? There is a special loneliness and acrid sting to the desolate heartache found in this barren place of the withered heart. Here, a parched spirit finds a drop, a whisp of dew on dead leaves, just enough to sustain, but not truly live. Enough to survive but not come forth in light. I am your tourguide in this place of the Dead. What business have you? Ah ne'er a mind pay it . . . It is as unimportant as the life I now live, as used up and crackled as the last choking embers in a waning fire. Yes, I know this place well. These here? They are dusts that blow with the voices of ghosts. I nurture them. They need me, at least. They do not ask why, but rather simply echo my voice when pathetic, querying, crying to the gods -- "What pain in the empathy!" "What ghastly, white-hot emaciation in the evacuated sphere, used up and thrown!" Meso. Middle. The Center? The Lukewarm, it really is. They don't tell you that in the brochures. I did not ask to be holy. Yes, I have heard before. It has issued forth from my own utterance and it is almost laughable, no? I submit that as the grindstone holds my heart, it is further seared and bludgeoned, between two pillars -- one to whom I've given my life, the other, my spirit. It is blade-sanded, I say -- this beating thing that rests caged in the ribs of flesh. The hot winds blow and dry the desert once more, the pain blooms like a kiss in my ear. Your trap was sprang slowly, over many moons. The other grew upward around me, and my trellised form, gave life, strength, and the blood of my body so they could live even still . . . Yet the roots were thrashed in violent tearing, Unexpected and from fear, the swords clashed, severing my arteries almost in two. Oh how my tears did flow in those moments! How like an ocean, I lived, buried under, unable to breathe. You're done, aren't you? I fear you are. Yes, yes, I know. I've heard it before when the vessel is emptied and the spring, gone. In the winterfall, I know its voice. It greets me with a sickening grin, making my warm hands, cold; my joyous heart, broken in a gleaming flash. I watch myself die. You're done, and once again, I have carried across a stage, nothing more, though my heart was given freely, truly, and with all love. I hear the adoration in the voice of those who illusion themselves into thinking me worthy. My heart sinks. The worthy do not find themselves shoved away, nor do they splay across the table of loneliness. Divine hope, you are a cruel Mistress. Yet, you are all of my tutelage, and all I shall ever be. The font of my worthiness, you flow forth and when the light beams, night falls on the Mistress of the Broken. "Poet" and "Priestess of Nothing," she crumples, heaving out huffing smoke breaths of despair, anguish; utter grief and pain. The Mistress's house will crumble, and her stores empty for good. In that moment, when the eyes have no more rivers to gush forth, she will depart for the Ether, spirit emptied, heard rendered silent. Until then, she is racked, drawn, and given a remarkable price to pay once more. Compelled to sign her name on the ledger again, she checks out her heart. It is borrowed, joyously treasured, loved and cherished, until tears and the end of the tale are heralded by the dying of the light. She remains. In the spring of the world, she dances forth life. In the dying of the spirit, she joins the linked-arms of le grand danse macabre. When will it end? She will find nothing. Nothing will be her demise. Her heart will use up its last ember, its last chord will issue from broken strings too thin to be remounted. Neither of you want me. You have outgrown and I have outlived. My heart dies another death. URL: http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2013/03/mistress-of-fracture-madame-de-la-brise.html