October Diaries: Keeper

October 10,

The line between cognizance and complacence is thinner than spider's silk. Yet, how strenuous it often seems, to lift a lazy finger and break it. Sometimes, our innermost voices are not the keys to escaping the complex cages we are so masterful at trapping ourselves in. Sometimes, our innermost voices remain, like us: merely the keeper.

Crafting memory in figments

Breathing melody to silence

Only the numb has felt

Just as the living's gift:

Gradual release to death

Her ivory and black striped hands

Flourish a cyclical dance

Trance, enrapture our eyes

Searching for the barest chance

Biding for cessation in rhythm

Binding thought to page

A brazen effort

To prolong each sifting day

We strike chords in ourselves

Wishing others do the same

Her eyes are spiral fissures

Watching words stealing whispers

Her body knows all but not

The grace of giving without pain

Still, she persists the same

Without violent release

Given to vicious tendency

We burst in defiant hues

Fighting a war we always lose

To age, to dagger, to noose

Her mechanical laughter

Shudders mirthless and empty

Inspires mockery in inaction

Degrading hope to hurt;

Our wisdom to dirt

Embracing all of nothing

Pushes her tremors deeper

Pushing awareness a distance

And love a leisure

To make us her keeper

We stop.

But her spark needs no second-start.

We stop.

Only to embody her art.