Stained Soul: A Sequel to Stained Fabric

But it wasn’t so. She couldn’t come. She wouldn’t come if She were able to. She had escaped into life. Why would she come back to him who wallows in deadness? His loves were sinful and shallow, hers were pure and right. He was dirty. She was made perfect.

He strained the unhappiness out of his head and replaced it with the happiness she used to grant him with, though the wounds still bled deep inside of him. “Please, just let me die! I don’t want these people near, I don’t want friendship or love, or hate and bitterness. I just want numbness and the end of gravity.”

The unreal hollow voice above commanded boarding, but He didn’t want to anymore. He didn’t want anymore machines. Anymore unreal voices. All he wanted was to see her one more time and clarify the life that was a slave to hers. The voice kept calling, kept jeering. "SHE IS GONE! FORGET OR REMEMBER!"

Yes, it was her body in that plane, it was her wrinkled face, those were her perfumed clothes. They were all going to her subterranean home. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t the lithe form that he held in his arms every night for 40 years. It wasn’t that face that smiled upon him sarcastically when he knew he made her laugh on the inside. It wasn’t the perfume of their love on a frosty fall day in the park. She had vanished.

He didn't want to remember her. He wanted to kiss her. He didn't want to forget her, he wanted to explore the world with her. He didn't want to leave her. He wanted to share her warmth in the chilliness of earth.

He swiftly rolled himself out, past security to the bus, still in the airport’s wheelchair. He rode to that park where they had spent their infrequent Sunday afternoons. Where they shared their loves and cares. Where they explained their failings.

He hobbled with his retractable cane to the rusty bench.

He sat down.

He looked at the infinitesimal letters that were their names carved into the winding wooden armrest.

He lay down and wept for an eternity.

Ode to a Love Forgotten

I met the dear Ophelia

Upon the western stair

Through some columns of transport

Into the wild air.


The whipping wind blew thru her hair

While her eyes were infused with joy

But like a flower withering

Her heart did black employ.


“Save me from that death!” she screamed.

“The forlorn death of a lover,

For upon the wakening of the sun

Flies forth, that plumed plover.”


“My heart soars away,

My lover in madness wrought.

Forever gone from my bosom.

To fall, to die, I ought.”


I opened my mouth to comfort her

But not a sound progressed.

And with the rising of a sun,

Her protests did arrest.


And with a scream of agony,

She disappeared and was gone.

And her cry was not of pain,

But because the madness of one so fond.


I saw the girl Ophelia,

Upon the western stair.

Her lovely face was happy ever,

But only with sweet Hamlet there.

A Heart of Snow

She escaped to the stoop. It was time like these that she felt relief from the indifference inside. She knew they didn’t care for her. How could they. It had been years since her foster parents were enlightened from their artificial familial affection into compassionate disregard. She would often overhear them on the phone to their friends, “Yah, Poor Terri. She’s going thru another “rough” stage. Imagine all your family abandoning you, having no friends, and some random family to live with!”
Once again, no one understood. Once again, no one cared. This was her life. To them, she was a doll in a dollhouse. Moveable. They could incur all THEIR emotions onto her, and not realize what hers was. After she would hear them chatter, squawk, she would hide here. In the cold. But not alone. There was the snow.
She watched the snow fall like down feathers from the grey pillowy sky. She watched as the drifted this way and that. The wind would catch them and hurtle them towards danger then back away from it. Like her, the snow was passed from one house to another.
A few snowflakes landed on her hands, hands that were worn and chapped from the dryness. And for a second, they felt refreshingly numb. If only numbness could reach the heart.

Wayfaring Thru Life

The towers surround you, the inky blackness too. Looking to yourself, you huddle deeper in the fleecy jacket. Thick enough to protect against the bitterness, thin enough to allow the seeping cold to make you shudder. This is how I like it. This is how I live. Walking past towers, walking past men. Walking through life.

Observing and departing. Observing an individual that will never be noticed again. Noticing for once someone’s goodness. Noticing again someone’s wickedness. This is how I like it. Walking past youth. Walking past elderly. Walking past life.

Then a stare. And another. More like a glare. Those distinct faces now face me. I, observed?! Start running. Start hiding. Don’t be noticed. Don’t be seen! This is how I like it. Hiding from looks. Hiding from others. Hiding from life.

Fire awaits. A snappy, pure journal also. A kettle too, but that takes time to heat. This is how I like it. Now away from others. Seeking refuge from aliens. Soaking in life.