Conversations

She said,

"I prefer nightmares to reality. When darkness is come and day is spent: phantoms glory in our dread, only in the back of our eyelids do they live. However, there is no place sanctuary enough for reality, for it has no day like nightmares, it has a way of making grey silent cemetery auras seem cerise."

He said

"Is that why you swim in the fermented waters?"

"It's how they make me feel. A way of water that rids of all filth, they are mature, experience is the greatest teacher, so let them school my soul how to let go and be free. You see in the fleeting euphoric state we are free."

"Are you, or illusion-ed to be?"

She said,

"It would be futile to count my troubles than it would be to trace the lines on the palms of my hands. So instead I dance when the fermented waters rain and the moon is blue."

"But throwing a white veil on you dirt doesn't make it white or go away."

"Neither are Pharisees saints."

"Don't judge me, you don't know me. Just because the lawn in your eyes is manicured doesn't make it more grass than mine. So piss off. Don't come here adorning saints in your eyes and tongue; your bruised thumbs witness you playing with our hearts like X box consoles. All regal, who made you the life critic?"

Silence as the arrogant and pompous words swing doors open in parts of the conscience that haven't seen the light of truth in eons. As though its not enough they mural the black walls of ignorance in hues of crimson, yellow, magenta, lest you forget.

"I know your type, Casanova, mouths that coo velvet nectar ministering to my weakness leaving me on my knees worshiping at the temple of your body: physic like Achilles of Greece. So don't judge me: you're the darkness yet you walk around selling lanterns like you saviour, nicca please, the devil is a liar."

"I'm in pieces, walk around shards in a napkin looking for an adroit to stitch me up: pardon me if my embrace comes with cuts."

"Look at you, shards in a napkin but you still love throwing your opinion around like it were the gospel. How do you sleep at night?"

"Like everyone else, with my eyes closed."

We laugh and sit in silence a bit.

"You might want to sit under cascades of fermented water that you seem to despise so much and drench your soul. Theirs is experience in swaying like merchant ships at sea, who knows they may lull your soul draped in melancholy and stitch your shards for you."

"I prefer nonchalantly sitting my demons across tables like peers of sorts. These cascades of fermented rain you sing praise of wash away no sins: only offer fleeting peace that evanesce with the rising sun like morning dew. I would prefer something less ephemeral."

A moment of palpable silence slothfully waltzed by, blue waters trickling into forbidden crevices were morsels of conscience are hidden far from the light of truth.

The rivulets in her eyes are on the verge of breaking, she wars them, she is strong, tears have no place here. The rivulets have been gathering like clouds promising rain, and rain they do. The tears take a flow of shame down her cheeks, disowned as if they weren't bits of her soul, words spoken by a frail resigning heart. Lines appear on her face threatening to crumble the facade that hides a drowning soul. It's forbidden to cry, it's weakness. With the arrogant tears on her cheeks as if nothing had happened she opens her mouth.

"Since you are judging me."

I interrupt,

"I'm not, we are conversing, the truth has a way of making us feel like clear vials on a shelf, like light can dilatorily waltz in, expose the darkness we hoard."

"Aren't you happy you're all bundled up in a napkin now, no light drunkenly sneaking in there now is it? No skeletons threatening, no unwanted faces staring out got you here feeling all regal huh!"

"Well look for no saints here, like ancient folktales there're whiffs rare to come by, only sons and daughters of men here. We were not taught how to be, we stumble upon the truth every now and again when we are close to resigning."

"That's not a good enough excuse, if I may?"

"You may not, but we all know your tides know no shore now do they."

We chuckle, there is a moment of serenity & nostalgia.

"What's fair in life? We are raised in broken homes, fathers that beat us like African drums for melodies, battered and bruised mothers that water their cherubs with sweat and tears, and yet you're adamant to search for saints in our eyes. You cannot ask mirrors for beauty you did not place."

"You seem to forget, your eyes are adorned with saints. Blind eyes do not only see bereft light, some cannot see the god that stares back. You were fashioned a warrior goddess. Don't search mirrors for beauty placed, but for the god in you."

"I guess gods are better phantoms, imagined celestials."

"For shards in a napkin, you sure have a lot to say."

"Even broken mirrors, mirror. It is of wisdom to ask for her fare in experience. Many were the ones that fell by Saul's hands before he became a saint and many were saved by the same. Maybe hurt is part of the circle, it allows for new things to come forth when the time is right, like rain showers show tufts rebirth."

"Maybe I have no more skin to scar, the walls are frail and won't hang another facade. Maybe I am resigned."

Her face is more relaxed. The garb is faltering, rays of light invading the darkness and it's lifting. Her tears are not motherless anymore, it's as if she gave them permission and they rain down her cheeks, accolades of sorts, that say after everything here we stand. They gave way and allowed for a smile to form on concrete.

There is a place for butterflies with broken wings in the sun.

She owns her tears as if thanking them for lifting a weight off her soul. I look on and smile as I feel a weight on mine take flight.

Lastly she says,

"Let the fermented waters carry me home, water me green.

Let my epitaph read give God glory, guess that's my story.

Did what I could with the hand I was dealt."