No One Lives His Life
“No One Lives His Life”
A quiet face, dark brooding eyes
hiding a quizzical gaze, masked
the mystery within. There was
a wariness about the jaw,
clenched as if holding some
small prey, some bit of information
that must be held, understood,
and dealt with. Age brought little
relief. It did bring greater awareness
of the treasures that had been protected.
The gentleness shared only with
babies and puppies, the smile coaxed
by the warmth of spring sunshine.
A strength, a genuine strength, not
of muscle and sinew, but of courage
borne of tenacity, of love forged on
cold metal, a determination to
absorb and rise above the pain of
life’s meanness. These resided here,
in this “repository of un-lived things”,
encased in a kindness that was unknown,
soothed by a song unheard, loved
by a spirit that wasn’t. These gifts,
these precious offerings, long
defended from the thieves that
stalk the innocence of youth,
wait in this treasure trove of hope.
Honest words of truth awakened,
defiant stance of newfound dreams,
first steps from darkened place of
hiding. A quiet face, dark brooding eyes,
unmasked, freed from living others lies,
for “no one lives his life”.
//Rilke’s Book of Hours//
4/21/2014
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