speaking at the end
Pamela R. Cone
There is something lying between the last sentence and the next. Something that will linger for days and perfume the empty space. And what would have happened had the words escaped through the gate? Would the next day have begun any differently? If we were in possession of the ability to rewind to the moments which now fill us with the stench of resentment, would we now posses the courage as well to allow words to become attached to our inner appetites?
I would rather not have the stretched out fields of my days resemble the fenced in dumps we pass by quickly so as not to deal with the guilt of our waste. No, I would rather nourish the soil with the lessons of humility and respect--not to mention restraint. There is something to be said about being disciplined. I'm not quite sure what, but it keeps you in your own bed at night. It keeps you looking towards Heaven asking for what you are not always willing to lend to others. It makes you pause before you utter the next verse.
II. Hanging at the seams are the answers. The questions still lie on the table with the scraps. They are divided among those who will search for the unseen. The reasons why we walk upright. Why we reason on our own but still need a guide. The theories may not all fit. They may become just as much a mystery. But the questions mean more. III. No one is interested in the content--only the label and its size. Branded before time could finish the product. Unsure if the first half will match the second. In the meantime, the intermission is full. And the regret is bitter about the future.
IV. Requests, ones spoken desires. Some locked inside, left as a secret. They may not be legal in the sense of obeying laws, but they can reach a point in which they make their own laws. Taking on shapes and walking around searching for a fence to rest on. Seizing the moment, they disregard asking permission, abandon the rules of physics, and sweep up the crumbs that fall from the table.
V. No ones talking. This is a failed attempt to make it untrue. However, the evidence is on the table--their prints mar the walls. They would rather pretend it's some sort of illusion. If this is true, we must all walk around with the same delusions. How else can you explain the common emotions? Explain how pie taste sweet to everyone with a normal palette. Explain how summer is warm. Some things can't be packaged. They just show up at the front door as if they have lost their way, stumbling in the dark. VI. The whispers are getting louder. They haven't found their way to their intended victim. The speculations blow wildly in the wind. The daggers are ready to pierce with fire. VII. Before you claim yourself you'll give your soul to another. Not sure if you are worthy to posses such freedom. The freedom to own yourself, to wear your own name. Not a slave to faith, but to those who die daily as you do. Those too vulnerable to die alone.
Pamela R. Cone is an Interior Designer and Writer residing in Dayton, Ohio. She writes poetry and her work has been published in The Clarion Review. Her blog, Sometimes I Talk to Myself, can be found at pamelaconespoetry.blogspot.com.