tagPoetry With AudioA History Of Madness

A History Of Madness

bySander Roscoe Wolff©

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The cigarette ash burns long as the song plays out on the stout man's handsome victrola, turned softly toward the dawn. Music becomes a pawn in this game of life. His wife, a slight thing, wrings her hands and cries with eyes full of tears. Years pass and no one knows of the faded memories of seas and songs, of travels beyond this conduit of moments. Tents rise, and nomads rest, the dust and sand caressed their skin and eyes. Horses and camels with detailed enameled reins spit and whinny as the sun lights upon the face of Albert Finney as Geoffrey Firmin, drunk on loss and draped in ermine, waiting for Jacqueline, beset by ghosts that never rest. The faded streets that run along these ancient ways bring faded days to faded ends, resplendent in the dust of history.

This clarity, it comes and goes. Who knows the whys and wherefores? The stores of moldy grain contain the essence of our inner vision, driven out by fear. A shout or whisper, echoes still, the mill stone turns its secrets into dross. The year has passed, the moments too, when color drained from every face, when disgrace and sadness rained. The shame of living grew too great, the hate and anger tossed into a pale melange. The hail stones fell, the stories tell, upon the souls whose peace they had dismissed. The glistening shine of ice in brine blinded them, and so they came to naught.

We taught the children of this place, of passions fierce, and great disgrace, of lives that burned so brightly then that, nightly, we must tell of them again, and again. We tell them so they too can know, and live to hope and hope to grow, that heart-felt truths slip fast away, and history becomes a gray shroud upon these memories. If we forget, or they forget, the past that brought us to this state, the suffering, the fear and hate, will all come back, and not abate. These precious moments, fragments all, deny the future's clarion call to arms, to harm, and misery. Lay not upon this mired bed, cold comfort for your heart and head. Instead, walk on, or stand, or fall. There's nothing more, in fact, that's all.

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bySander Roscoe Wolff© 2 comments/ 17078 views/ 0 favorites

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