Something I wrote long ago when I belonged to one of the first blogging sites-Journalspace.
It reads a top of the page: As requested.To keep it going.
The rain has stopped it's redundant cries.
The cold has become bitter sweet.
Fluffy clouds cast over the ancient stone castle.
Billows of perfectly shaped snowflakes tumble from the sky.
Her slender piano fingers no longer fix themselves against the window pain.
They lay carefully folded in her lap.
She gazes out to another season in awe and bewilderment.
The snow has always struck her as a holy event.
A mystical form of sunshine to lighten the miles of path she no longer takes.
A guiding hand of some sorts to bring lightness into her soul.
A pinnacle reason to look forward at mornings break.
A time she can reflect, a time she can remember.
A time she waits..
The old servant of the manor brings her food she denies.
A claim of no hunger, a claim of no desire.
A claim, merely a claim, and it sits, silver tray of 100 years, tattered with time,
used by many, left to sit as she waits...
She brings her weary hands up to unlatch the old rusted metal switch on her small pained bedroom window.
A long steady squeak ensues, as a gust of frigid cold bites at her delicate face.
She gasp's and takes in the clean air like if she was on her last breath.
Her head buzzes with blatant newness.
She ponders a change, and with that a sudden fear surrounds her heart.Picks at her soul, and crumples her hopes.
Alone is all she knows.
Alone is all she has.
Alone is what she chose.
Here she will wait...
The piano hums in the distance again.
Haunting her with sad melodies of time gone by.
Of time she hoped for.
The dark cold walls go on forever,through miles of corridor, and long red carpet to nowhere.
End it her mind screams out!!!
And she reaches up once more.
Her delicate arm reaching, as she lightly pulls the small pained window shut, and latches the old rusted lock, five floors up, an eternity away.
She lets out a sigh, a restless day.
And she waits...
The smoldering fire that is hidden so well, burns low.
The flicker from now and then sends her mind on a mystical tour.
The enchantment of a faith, a renewal, a reunion burns steady in her will to exceed another day.
She brings her hand up to her soft, pale cheek.
Runs it down to her lightly painted lips.
Remembrance of the sweetness, of the tenderness.
And she waits....
So many years have passed since I've written like this.Many times over I tried in vain in going back to that time and find myself again,imagining with my minds eye and dancing through places all of my own.
I had thought I lost all my scrolling's of yester-year when Journalspace died.
Not so long ago I found nestled in an antique dresser of mine-page upon page of typed out neatly of various encounters with my old writing.Somewhere along the line I must have (after all) copied some of my past from the computer, though it looks as I'm missing a few pages that rightfully belong to certain stories/poems.
That said? I do not declare that my journey with this style of writing was any good.Personally I think my readers of the time rather hear of my day, funny as it would unravel at times.Still though? I rather liked at times losing myself in the magic of which takes one away to another land.
And from that I have once again found me.Different of course, but a piece of me scrolled and weaved onto pages that I will share once again.
To all with love~ Dee~