Returned and entered through the street
October 21st 2009 22:15
Returned and entered through the street
I returned and entered through the street,
While the pace was kept by marching feet,
And voting with feet? Or dying to retreat into an area where comfort was a given?
Comfort came and was asked quietly to leave, while the rolling white sleeves of indecision made room for revision,
And while walking away quietly, respectfully and with lament and resentment for a fickle nature;
Something else returned and entered through the street,
The late night scratching of pen on paper filled the room with an almost audiable joy, and although the sound of scratching was creating an allusion to an audiable joy- it was not the audiable joy itself, it just leant towards it, towards the illusion that was greater than the past intrusion;
And the dancing pen and tired eyes of something then that then was now; tip tapped, tip tapped, tip tapped, and spinning around on the spot where I stood I turned to look and;
Something else returned and entered through the street,
Something sweet and kept and lost and the cold frost of the first morning brought with it no space for mourning and though yerning was somewhere in the crisp and icy cold morning air, it was not dominant, the prominent feature being something quite different to the indifferent bent frame of one who had forgotten the lost children of no restraint. And quaint and alone and quietly articulating itself in intricate waves and patterning displays and displayed something on the back wall, the back wall of the garden. And in the gaurded stance, in a trance of auto questioning, deliberating, self interrogating, something was forgotten, something else entirely- no not something that should be forgotten- just something that was forgotten and what returned in the gap between some other thing's retreat and some other thing's arrival? Something sweet; and I turned around, reeled around, and; listened to the approaching tip tapping of something's feet; I turned around and it
returned and entered through the street.
And laying there on the first night of the first morning there was a silence.
There it was.
That silence.
The almost audiable joy.
The internal questions had ceased. And there it was.
That silence.
That brought with it a certainty of path, an easy and quiet smile that had forgotten itself- lost for a while, in the do's and dont's and will's and wont's and why's.
And an answer was never reached in all of that searching, in all of the meetings the people in my head had met about regularly. There they were: sitting around the boardroom table waiting for something to discuss, that robust line up of serious minded and quick minded and intelligent people in my head, providing perspectives, other options, playing out senarios, giving visual presentations of the; 'if this then that's' and building it up and breaking it down...well there they sat...waiting for something to discuss.
And the tip tapping was the pen's tapping on a quiet and topicless boardroom table, tip tapping and waiting... and with no crisis to discuss, no crisis of questioning, no should I's or shouldn't I's, they tapped their pen's, and after the tip tapping?
That silence.
And what was to arrive after the silence? The late night scratchings of pen on paper?
And amid the smile and the tip tapping and the late night scratching I did not even turn around to look for something else to;
Return and enter through the street.
I returned and entered through the street,
While the pace was kept by marching feet,
And voting with feet? Or dying to retreat into an area where comfort was a given?
Comfort came and was asked quietly to leave, while the rolling white sleeves of indecision made room for revision,
And while walking away quietly, respectfully and with lament and resentment for a fickle nature;
Something else returned and entered through the street,
The late night scratching of pen on paper filled the room with an almost audiable joy, and although the sound of scratching was creating an allusion to an audiable joy- it was not the audiable joy itself, it just leant towards it, towards the illusion that was greater than the past intrusion;
And the dancing pen and tired eyes of something then that then was now; tip tapped, tip tapped, tip tapped, and spinning around on the spot where I stood I turned to look and;
Something else returned and entered through the street,
Something sweet and kept and lost and the cold frost of the first morning brought with it no space for mourning and though yerning was somewhere in the crisp and icy cold morning air, it was not dominant, the prominent feature being something quite different to the indifferent bent frame of one who had forgotten the lost children of no restraint. And quaint and alone and quietly articulating itself in intricate waves and patterning displays and displayed something on the back wall, the back wall of the garden. And in the gaurded stance, in a trance of auto questioning, deliberating, self interrogating, something was forgotten, something else entirely- no not something that should be forgotten- just something that was forgotten and what returned in the gap between some other thing's retreat and some other thing's arrival? Something sweet; and I turned around, reeled around, and; listened to the approaching tip tapping of something's feet; I turned around and it
returned and entered through the street.
And laying there on the first night of the first morning there was a silence.
There it was.
That silence.
The almost audiable joy.
The internal questions had ceased. And there it was.
That silence.
That brought with it a certainty of path, an easy and quiet smile that had forgotten itself- lost for a while, in the do's and dont's and will's and wont's and why's.
And an answer was never reached in all of that searching, in all of the meetings the people in my head had met about regularly. There they were: sitting around the boardroom table waiting for something to discuss, that robust line up of serious minded and quick minded and intelligent people in my head, providing perspectives, other options, playing out senarios, giving visual presentations of the; 'if this then that's' and building it up and breaking it down...well there they sat...waiting for something to discuss.
And the tip tapping was the pen's tapping on a quiet and topicless boardroom table, tip tapping and waiting... and with no crisis to discuss, no crisis of questioning, no should I's or shouldn't I's, they tapped their pen's, and after the tip tapping?
That silence.
And what was to arrive after the silence? The late night scratchings of pen on paper?
And amid the smile and the tip tapping and the late night scratching I did not even turn around to look for something else to;
Return and enter through the street.
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