Nothing Less Than Beautiful

Maybe I am to blame. Maybe soon I will have the courage to accept that the blame lies solely with me. Maybe with time I can start to comprehend that it is not blame at all that I must place. That blame yields to scars for another, but scars there were none. Scars cover my all, but none of me made scars for some desperate other. Scars there were none, but my soul lost its colour, lost its will to shine. The blame cannot sooth, cannot cover the gaping wounds that show veins throbbing, uncover the flesh unblemished. Blame is a substitute hardly able, crippled by misgivings. Maybe it is easiest demanding to be named culprit. For my scars I want myself blamed – is what I whispered. So far from you, not even the echoes of these words could ever reach. Yet you have changed me, shaped me. Unbeknownst to you, I have moulded my mistakes, I have twisted the blame to fit exactly what you have made. What I suspect you have made.

I do not bend, but I would bend for you.

You are everything. Every forgotten word, every melody unable to fly, every unwritten poem, every sunshine covered by clouds. You have made me a ghost, how I haunt. These empty streets, the barren lands of my present and bleak glimpses of the times ahead. I move amongst you, there are signs that I may be, there are times of laughter, there are times of tears, there are times of anger and seldom forgiveness. There are appearances that are kept, there are instances that burn, but there is void in each lightly taken step. The void is you, the ghost haunting is me. Dearest. Dove of these grey days. Light amongst the black vastness of the universe. Tender troubadour that guides the lost souls across the sea. This is what I call you. In adoration and hope, in gratitude and faithful reminiscence, this is what you are to me. Love, you are the world to me. Love, how you have changed me, you have moved me. One moment you saw me dancing in the light, then quietly crouching in the corner.

I do not sway, but I would change for you.

Lost is the hope, all the hope. Until I find it again just as easily as it has slipped from my hands. Lost are my ways, lost I am in fullness to you. The feet do the walking, choose the direction as they please. The night turns into day, the rain into sunshine. Winter brings the majestic snow and ice. Without much notice these disappear but the feet keep shuffling forward. Dryness follows the damp mornings, short days run before their longer nights. All this time I never forget, but I would erase all memory for you. I cannot force you to find me, so I stand out into the wind, hoping to bear the beacon of my ready heart. You fool me, trick me, evade the meeting, watch as I soak in the torrential rain. The tickling sunlight dries my cheeks of the rain, maybe of the tears. In this I will not move, like a pole firmly cast into the shallow, muddy soil, I resist the curious wind, do not bow to its efforts of temptation. I will not move lest I should miss the meeting of our souls. Please try to find me, I am at these dubious crossroads. I am invisible and unwilling, but in an instance become a star, all the Northern Lights. I doubt what I see, what I hear. I need persuasion to believe the rain really will drench my dry soul. I need convincing that moving does not mean I will no longer be loyal. I need encouraging keeping up the fight. I need calming to stay steady, earnest in the want. I am beaten too many times. I am left too many times. I am ridiculed then dismissed. I am avoided, unnoticed, humiliated then slowly forsaken. Hope leaves me, over much time spent waiting. I lose the want, narrowly lose the hope. This is how I want you to find me, when I am ready. In time, when you are ready.

I do not know patience, but I will learn to love the wait.