“My life has been empty,
my life has been untrue
And does she really know, who I really am?
Does she really know me at last?
And are you just like me?
Dead eyes,
are you just like me?
Her eyes, her eyes
were as vacant as the seas, yeah
Dead eyes,
Dead eyes,
are you just like me?”
— ‘By Starlight’ lyrics by Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins album “Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness”
*************************************************************
as I wait for him at the airport I watch the sky .... and realize
looking up at the setting sun
I had the dream again ....last night
it was the one again where at first I don’t see my foot prints in the sand as I move across the shore
..... and I move like gossamer but this time, I see an image of a field of burning crosses and see the silent screams of dead empty skulls swinging from trees
I hear his music to the opera in my dream
And then I see him again for the first time
the day at the market....like a moment eternally frozen in time
the way the wind swept back his hair, like shimmered gold against the beach of sand as he stood there at the market with his bag of swords,
the slate gray of his eyes of his eyes of possession that blended with the blue of the sea and the sky
and then it is another scene with the smeden on the beach through her eyes.... a ritual or ceremony
under a full moon
in the dream I walk around him on the wet sand and draw a circle around us and kneel before him and before I move to kiss his body, I hold up the moonstone and scry into the white-blue moonstone cabochon
and hear the foreign words spoken from my lips say,
“am byth....” as he repeats the words with me ....
and then I see too that.....
he is so young really....too young to look so old
....his eyes, like that of a vampire who lost his soul—sucked out by life—eyes of such wild beauty and hidden fragility that only a dove could actually see
and I become aware, as I have the dream, of this warrior’s heavy sense responsibility; of that life and its great burden on his soul, to trade for an artist’s soul and found myself wondering how he took it on and what or how it served his life’s need, if it kept his soul in shackles and defeated his greater purpose; the warlord; a prisoner of a life, was that why he was given the chance to try again and does the burden remain because it has become a comfort of baggage and all that he knows?
***************************************
It has gone quite chill in the mountains and there is sleet on the road on the way to the airport
Jörn is easy to spot from a distance, as he stands out tallest among the exiting passengers with his gold blond hair pulled back and carrying his cello. He wears a long, heavy, trench coat over a gray turtleneck with darker gray flannels.
He smells good when I reach up to him and kiss his neck; like wood and citrus. He fills my head and .... I catch my fingers into his hair to prolong the embrace.
it is always such a rush to see him and it occurs to me it is going on one year since the first day I wound up in his living room to retrieve my mail
“So what were you doing New Jersey?” I ask against his ear stretched on toes to reach him, “and what were you saying about a table and e-Bay?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says and then, enigmatically, he says, “hidden keys, notes, codes, chords ....”
the way the wind swept back his hair, like shimmered gold against the beach of sand as he stood there at the market with his bag of swords,
the slate gray of his eyes of his eyes of possession that blended with the blue of the sea and the sky
and then it is another scene with the smeden on the beach through her eyes.... a ritual or ceremony
under a full moon
in the dream I walk around him on the wet sand and draw a circle around us and kneel before him and before I move to kiss his body, I hold up the moonstone and scry into the white-blue moonstone cabochon
and hear the foreign words spoken from my lips say,
“am byth....” as he repeats the words with me ....
and then I see too that.....
he is so young really....too young to look so old
....his eyes, like that of a vampire who lost his soul—sucked out by life—eyes of such wild beauty and hidden fragility that only a dove could actually see
and I become aware, as I have the dream, of this warrior’s heavy sense responsibility; of that life and its great burden on his soul, to trade for an artist’s soul and found myself wondering how he took it on and what or how it served his life’s need, if it kept his soul in shackles and defeated his greater purpose; the warlord; a prisoner of a life, was that why he was given the chance to try again and does the burden remain because it has become a comfort of baggage and all that he knows?
***************************************
It has gone quite chill in the mountains and there is sleet on the road on the way to the airport
Jörn is easy to spot from a distance, as he stands out tallest among the exiting passengers with his gold blond hair pulled back and carrying his cello. He wears a long, heavy, trench coat over a gray turtleneck with darker gray flannels.
He smells good when I reach up to him and kiss his neck; like wood and citrus. He fills my head and .... I catch my fingers into his hair to prolong the embrace.
it is always such a rush to see him and it occurs to me it is going on one year since the first day I wound up in his living room to retrieve my mail
“So what were you doing New Jersey?” I ask against his ear stretched on toes to reach him, “and what were you saying about a table and e-Bay?”
“I’ll tell you on the way,” he says and then, enigmatically, he says, “hidden keys, notes, codes, chords ....”
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