Solace
Isolated by a quietly devouring madness she sits,
Curled into a foetal huddle in the wreckage of an unmade bed
Her knees jacked up to her chin, her eyes shut - translucent battened hatches
Her lips parted, childish, hinting at wistful vulnerability,
And the silent hope that her soul might be set free, and escape through
The tiny gap between...
...those gentle rosebud lips
In her ears, nestled like white plastic pearls in the swirling shell of her lobes,
Sit the miniscule microphones, blasting escapism and beauty
Into the desperate crevices of her heart – each soaring note a fresh
Droplet of water to soothe the drought that erodes her soul, day by day...
Music, her intangible solace, the swansong to her raven, the reason for every
Reluctant breath that scrapes down her tired throat
Without it she would be dead
The music is her closest friend, each song a vibrant ballad for her broken heart –
It serves as a tangled cacophonous balm to soothe the sharpness of the remaining
Serrated edges,
It smoothes out the crinkles in her soul, which resembles the dry concertinaed muddle of
A snake’s rejected skin, transparent and crumbling at the ends
Music sets her soul on fire, pulls her back from the dizzy brink
The singers’ voices rumbling and snarling in her mind, tigers in a gladiator’s ring, they wage
bloody war
against the demons that prowl the dim-lit corridors of the waif’s subconscious…
…they protect her from the gloom…
Now, as the fading beats draw to a close, she opens her eyes, the lashes fluttering
Like sooty butterfly wings,
She stretches, drags her unwilling mind back from the frosted northern heights it fled to,
She focuses her whimsical eyes, still damp with tears of yearning
And reaching up with reluctant hands she removes the silent earphones and lays them to rest
beside her bedside…
…to await the new challenges of
tomorrow.
Copyright © Amy Van De Casteele | Year Posted 2009
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