4 AM Thoughts

A beautiful moon.

The fall air is cool.

Music is therapy.

A picture of my mother
under lamp light.

There is a peculiar stillness in darkness.

Creatures of the night move
mysteriously in the starlight.

A bookmark protrudes in between
Pages 100 – 101
Frederick Douglas: Prophet of Freedom
by David W. Blight.

Two windows half way opened;

The branches and leaves of fall trees
move gracefully in light breeze.

The beauty of a clear sky
and twinkling stars overhead.

Several books stacked up at the edge of a large table.

Fine point and ball point pens mixed in
with a few pencils and markers in a container.

A stack of notebooks and writing pads.

Scented candles I’ve never used.

The humming of an air purifier.

A large cup of coffee with sweet condensed milk.

The comfort of a warm quilt.

A beautiful note written to me from someone
over twenty years ago on the back of a card
with a white dove and backdrop of floral colors,
that was recently rediscovered.








The Woman in the Black Veil

The woman in the black veil still weeps. The earth is saturated with her tears, and quakes in anger and sorrow. The sounds of her weeping and wailing pierces the very soul, and gives way to emotional waves of sadness. Only the tormented and afflicted know her pain. She walks among the shadows at night; her long black dress adorned with lace, drags on the ground behind her. Her black veil conceals her face. The children of the night and the afflicted know her name; she calls to them in a haunting voice and they come. They slowly approach with faces of sadness and watery eyes of pain; she wipes the tears from their eyes through black satin gloves. In silence, they congregate around her in a circle and stretch forth their hands to touch her; in each ear she faintly whispers the name of the child she lost, and to the afflicted she gives a sorrowful kiss. One by one they slowly depart, and fade into the darkness. The memory of her lost child is sealed within her. With a loud voice, she screams the name of her dead beloved repetitively—then silence. The darkness knows her name and is consumed with her anguish. The abyss is stirred.

Lady of The Night (The Allure)

 

A lady of the night. Extremely beautiful and calculating. Her heart is as cold as a Siberian winter. So many men have encountered her, only to witness their own destruction. Their souls gone forever, never to return. Her beauty is uncanny. She is always draped in the finest materials. Her nails are manicured to perfection. Her skin is radiant and beautiful; her face gorgeous and alluring. Her hair is long, conditioned, and wonderfully curled. Her selection of perfumes are a rare and irresistible pleasure. Her eyes are captivating and she has hypnotized many men with her gaze. Her lips are inviting and adorned in the most complimentary of colors and glosses. The tone of her voice is soft spoken.

No one really knew her story or background, only the rumors that were whispered in dark corners by men and women who had come to know of her endeavors. It was said that she was a lady of the night who took the souls of men; it was conveyed that she was irresistible and many men fell by the wayside after dealings with her. Rumor had it that she left many powerful men in financial ruin and made addicts of men. Addicts of her attention. Addicts of her sexual prowess. Addicts of her perceived love, and her powerful attraction. Still, many men pursue her to no end, as caution is thrown to the wind and reckless passion abounds. What they wouldn’t give for a night of lustful desires fulfilled where nothing is of limits. A night of excitement with a beautiful woman of her skill and talent. Only once have I spotted her; one glimpse of her was enough to invigorate my wildest and most lustful imaginations.

Without a word spoken she had mesmerized me. Incredible. She disappeared like a ghost before my eyes and I never saw her again. I shuddered at the thought of being totally captivated by her. The fate I would no doubt suffer if I was caught in her alluring web. My brief hypnosis wore off and I came back to reality. Still the curiosity in me needs to know her story. I want to know the reasons her heart is so cold. How she came to acquire her skills and prowess. The story of her upbringing. At least a name?

Behind The Eyes

 

Fear. A virulent plague penetrating bone, bore deep down into the bone marrow infecting exceedingly efficient, poisoning the blood stream. It shows no mercy to its hosts, leaving behind a shell of what was, or what could have been. Rendering its verdict with lightning speed before withdrawing to its place of darkness, where many like it exist. Day and night they feed on their hosts with unrelenting hunger. The ugliness, the unsightly ugliness of it is hard to fathom. Its trail of carnage is the making of nightmares; the stench sears one’s nostrils. Victims stumble around in the dark on cold nights searching for release and relief. The bottle becomes a close friend and narcotics a savior. Street lights tower above and witness their moments of slight reprieve. The sounds of splintered glass under shuffling feet signal their hour of desperation. Passersby look on in horror, but render no aid. Rodents display red beady eyes as they peer out of dark shadows to bear witness to the mire. Eyes, it is in those weary eyes, that you see the pain and plight of the sufferers. The eyes that look through you, the weeping, the misery. The thousand-yard stare is cast and it is frightening, almost crippling. Fear and anxiety are the masters of their torment, their faces are the faces of sorrow. Tears stream down weathered and wrinkled flesh, despondent faces indeed tell the tale of their wretched existence. Stories of a lifetime told in the blinking of an eye; the harrowing details of which can frighten the reader and instill fear in the listener. Fear, behind the eyes is where it dwells. Behind the eyes, is the place of their torment.

The Worlds

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A barren and desolate land where tumult and disquietude pursues you to no end. A place of deep darkness in the vastness of the other world. Crows spread their wings and navigate their way through thick putrid air. Their piercing cries and calls can be faintly heard in the other realm; their dark feathers conceal them from sight. Only an occasional glow of the eyes can be seen. I can see the other side, almost touch it, but I cannot cross over. Invisible shackles hold me back. For years I have sought to destroy them, but most have proven elusive. Those close to me have witnessed the shackles. They see them clearly, and they have toiled endlessly to release me, but alas I still remain in bondage. Strangers jeer with presumption; I cleave to hope with frayed thread. My movements are controlled and orchestrated by unforgiving and unseen forces. They render me lethargic and wilted. Obscurity has been an unwanted friend and we have abode now more seasons than I wish to count. The portal to the other side grows smaller and smaller by the year, by the day, by the hour. As the hour is upon me, I am incessant in my pursuit to reach it, to break through the dark layers and let light flood in. Will anyone assist? Is anyone there? My own echoes confirm my plight. I am resigned to my fate. Miraculously, fire still burns within me. I must conceal it in a secret place, lest the crows and whisperers of the night gaze upon it and uncover my resolve.