Tuesday, December 6, 2011

"...all Narnia will...perish in fire and water."

With bowed crown I paced steadily, silent, and alone across the darkened floor.  Bleachers lined the wall to my left. Their complete fall ended at my feet.  To my right was a stage.  Illumined by the only burning light, an artist perched on his platform as he gently sang a song he believed.  It was safe in his voice. 

"It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift..."

Between he and I was a void twice as wide as his audience.  We were more than oceans apart.

"...Well baby, I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
You know, I used to live alone before I knew ya..."

His song was enchantingly somber.  It penetrated my skin, coursed through my veins, dug into my skeleton, invaded my body, attempted to resuscitate the vitals that could call me back. 

"...But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was..."

Those traitors upon which I stand continued their own indifferent beat until they carried me to the center.   I was a specter of the elevated performer; he hunched over his instrument, I over the chasm in my chest.  From my land of shadows I crossed him on his pedestal.  For a moment, we eclipsed.  He struck his crescendo:

"Hallelujah!" : a roaring proclamation. 
"Hallelujah," : a statement.
"Hallelujah..." : a hope.

Trembling from core to cuticle, the song flickered out.  Transparency drowned in my murky, downcast eyes as I turned to ascend the bleachers.

*     *     *

"...Love is not a victory march;
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night.

It’s not somebody who’s seen the light.
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.


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