Indigo Moon by Deborah Borrett (romantic novels to read txt) 📕

humanity in a cadence of silence.


Occupation.

I feel overwhelmed.
There is a relentless oppression:
Thought after thought after thought
Battering against the inside frame of my brain
With endless utterings of tasks to be fulfilled,
Assigned time to be reassigned,
Chores awaiting,
People, children, work to deliberate over,
Care to be given and shown.

I feel starved of time.
I can’t turn my head
Without finding infinity to seek my attention
Demanding deployment of skills,
Stealing my energy,
Clamouring for my consciousness ~
Betraying my rational well-slept thought
With a restlessness that insists on sleeplessness.

I sometimes think who I am is dead.
I am alone with my introspection
But have no time to recall through
The myriad of voices, ideas, happenings,
Circumstances and consequences.

I am so tired:
Tired of my voice and thoughts
Being responsible for the emotions of others.
I am tired of doing everything wrongly,
Imperfectly;
Of not being ‘good’ enough,
Of causing hurt when there was no intent.

I don’t think I can feel any longer ~
I have stolen the key which stops the flow,
Though drenching might be better
Than this continual drip
Of perpetual ache
Of time spent busy
Overpoweringly restless
But without you.


Protection

I lie with you
Company alone prevents sleep.
I am content
Relaxed
Though sleep is withheld.
I hear the sound of you breathe
And I know you are where you want to be.
You are asleep contained in your own secret place
Where I cannot be.
I roll
Snuggled
Comfortable…

AND TIME ELAPSES

…And then you touch me
Gentle fingers in soft places
I curve into you
Skin caressed
Wanted.
Your breathing alters
Becomes sharper
Quicker
Strokes, more urgent
Skin hardening with desire
Palms encircling
Fingers stretched.

The fragrance of lust sweeps toward me

And then I remember
Smell - potent
Clamped
Shuttered.
I am awake
Contained in my own secret place
Where you cannot be.

This isn’t the way I want it…

AND TIME ELAPSES

…And I realise
I am laying still
Confounded
Unaware of how long I have been here
Of what has been said
Or listened to.
I realise you don’t know
Don’t know how scared I am
Don’t know how much I hate to journey back
To memories that flash
Then stick
Like a slide projector
Revealing images in shuttered motion.

AND TME ELAPSES

You are still here with me.
I become deeply aware of your concern
I want to run
I want to throw my box of memories
Into the deepest torrent
And I want to be away from this place.
I might remain silent
But it is by staying
That I show my bravery.
I stay, and choose this path.
I see your crumpled face
Your eyes tell me you don’t understand.
I long for words to explain
But, rather, let my tears talk.
I realise I have hurt you
And this is when I know I love you.

Love You.
You ~ my Mountain,
With space between for me to climb.
And fall.
You ~ my Mountain
My Guide
With caved walls for me to hide
Niches for secrets
Valleys for refreshment and rest
Clefts for protection.


Stolen.

A move, a touch.
Betrayal.
Arms wrapped, hands locked,
Legs kick, immoveable in capture;
Struggling in ineffectuality.
Toss, lurch, propel;
Tactile handling of intimate theft
Childhood stolen
He ~ to perdify; She ~ in perdition.
Doubt over reality.
To evince? Decision is crushing;
Heart demolished as He stands,
She, left ravaged, distraught
Sobs disquieting in self repulsion,
Devastation unspeakable,
Trauma paralysing in haste to flee,
Escape exhausted by emotional chaos,
Havoc exposed mind,
Soul impaired,
Innocence ruined
Caught in irreparable transgression
Unexposed iniquity
Masked desolation unwittingly unmasked
Heart stilled in silent revelation;
Memories tumbling
Tossing through air in random downward splatter
Of vision, sound, taste, touch ~
Crashing images - astounding, almost overwhelming,
Disabling reality in a brief second of captured yet repeated silence.


RETURNED.

Some say the lost can never return.
I believe the stolen can be replaced:
A treasured clock bought again,
Placed with pride on the already overcrowded mantelpiece.
A ring, placed back upon finger,
Given again with renewed promise and sentimentality.
But a stolen heart?
Thieved emotions,
Hurts planted and established?
These things cannot be repaired.
They are regenerated
Through courage, stamina and dedication
New friendships nourished,
Relationships enhanced;
A once-bowed neck can be strengthened
And its’ head held high.
Emergent strength can be shared, doubled;
Reproach never forgotten -
Rather twisted and manipulated
Into a recaptured and reformed energy.
Heart reclaimed, soul repaired
Emotions cherished and offered to others.
A broken person is never flawless
Because memories colour and blind.
But they can be haled whole,
Body recovered,
Feelings halted and replaced;
Innocence not regained
But rather torment subsided,
And who I am offered to others.
There really can be
Sensuality in censure of memory.


Senses.

She sat,
Languid,
Yearning:
Blindly seeing what she wanted to see
With disregard of sense or logic;
Smelling in the air around her
The very essence of what she desired ~
Letting it fill her lungs, yet rob her of breath;
Hearing snatched fragments of passion
Dulling in memory yet living in imagination;
Tasting the intangibility of her dreams
Like a cloying perfume drying on her tongue;
Coveting again the things she can already perceive and touch
Because they seem shallow and motionless without what she craves;
Lust over her dream seeping through the pores of her skin;
Aching through crying for what she does not and
Cannot mould her body and mind around;
Hungering to consume, and be consumed;
Longing without end for the end of her yearning to come;
Seeking out what she has set apart to be possessed
Then owning it with her heart.


Sleep

My soul met your soul at midnight.
I woke encumbered with grief;
Absorbed by sleep
You silently reached for me,
Stroked my hair amid your whispered slumber
And caught my un-regimented tears
In the palm of your hand.
Your beauty caught my ravished breath unawares.
I paused to watch it flutter
- poised in stillness-
And kissed your knuckles
Before wrapping myself with stillness.


The Caretaker.

The Caretaker:
He stands, hands gnarled from years of toil,
Surveyor of domain that relaxes in dust-moted splendour;
Bent wizened over staff, in contemplation of the care taken
To bring once lifeless soil to fruition;
His work ~ from azoic emptiness to sustained existence.

Soul-enriched soil, blood-tended earth;
Ploughed and cultivated, coaxed into edifying greatness,
Blistered palms warranting honour and dignity in all he sees.

And he stands proud,
Symbolic Overseer preparing to garner and preserve;
Custodian of the swelling life budding before him.

And he thinks: “It is ready”.


The Caretaker:
He stands outstretched hands turned skyward,
Surveyor of beauty cast from years of emotion
That ebbs calmly in unspoken aura.
He stands, straightened, tall and shameless,
As Preserver of the Life he has been given to cherish;
To bring once two-count empty life to enjoyment,
His borrowed ‘work’ ~ from friend, to cherished, to loved.

Nurture-enriched heart, nourished passion,
Protected and shielded, supported into gentle kindness,
Life-worn palms defending love in the Woman he sees.

And he stands proud
Victualler, preparing to hold and conserve;
Keeper of the potential in the tenderness she offers him.

And he thinks: “Together we are ready”.


The Collier.

He stood
Hemmed in
Thigh to thigh
Shoulder to shoulder
With dust caked colleague
His world darkened
Caged in with no glimpse of light
Brightness subdued by depth of mind
By depth of world.
Seconds later, jolted,
Cage opening barred
With creak of tensed cable
His environment began
Its forced rise upward.
Initial ascent was slow,
Appeared motionless,
Suspension filled by hacking cough
From phthisic lungs.
Then, sudden movement of travel
Up blackened shaft
With body spent
Gnarled hands pitted with torn flesh
Muscles tightened with pain.

The cage stopped…

Scores of men stumbled forward
Half blinded by darkness
Half blinded by light.
The collier appeared
Skin grey and creased
Lungs tortured by coal
As he shuffled home
Bent
To stifle pain
Love his family;
Begin his next shift.


The Gift.

I give you myself.
Despite doubt over my self worth
I am utterly and uniquely yours.
I don’t hold myself in any state of high esteem ~
In fact deep inside my core
I hurt more than anyone might ever suspect.
But what I am
And who I am
I give you.
I fear you will reject what I offer,
Hold my soul with high distain
And drive my many hidden weaknesses
To the surface of my being
Where they can be flaunted in public view,
Leaving me humiliated and wounded.

However,
I have nothing left within me but these things to offer you
~ those hidden secrets
That only the Keeper of my Heart should know about.
They are all that I have left in this meaningless world;
They ebb and flow in my innermost recesses
And oftentimes prevent me from feeling whole
Rather, more cumbersome
Than the gleaming smile-lit faces paraded about me.
These scarred memories give me my life
They have shaped me,
Made my life consistent,
Even if only consistent in hurt.
I can do nothing else but stand before you.
If all that is left of me ~ to be and to become ~
Is here right now
Then I can do nothing
But present you with this promise.
I love you with who I am.
I give this that you might know me
So that you might whisper my name in the dead of night
And have me know and understand your fragility
Because of my own frailness;
Be able to bolster you with strength
Because
With all the strength that I have left to live with
I give you my heart.


The Man Called Tom

He stood
Each day at the window
Watching
Waiting.
His head pounded each time she passed by
On rain drenched pavement. His eyes followed her the length of the street
Until she was out of sight.
Sometimes she was alone
Demure
Walking swiftly, purposefully
Head bent to the slabs
Glancing not once upward;
Other times walking slowly
Chatting
Attention fully consumed by her friends.


He stood
Each day at the window
Watching
Waiting
And wanting her.
He liked to watch her…
It gave him pleasure,
Simple glances
A fraction of a moment in physicality
Stored in mind
Images clung to
Searching out the next moment he would see her
On those ritual walks
Past the glass.


He stood
Each day at the window
Watching
Waiting.
He wore an un-ironed vest
Crumpled
Smelling of stale sweat
Under scagged woollen sweater
Patterned
Ragged at the cuff
And scattered with dog hair.
His skin was sallow
Creased
Aged and wrinkled
Fingers pollen-stained in hue
Teeth similarly pickled
Rippled
Decaying
Rotting
In gummed stench of age.


He stood
Each day at the window
Watching
Waiting.
Behind him collections of dust
Dirt
Crumbed carpet
Urine stenched rug
Paw print encrusted sofa
Brown dingy wallpaper
Half painted oils
Rags
Spilt turpentine fumes
And at the window in front of him
A fly buzzed incessantly
Banging against the pane.

He stood
Each day at the window
Watching
Waiting.
She wore a coat
Unbuttoned
Which swayed as she walked
Trousers long on