He came each day.
Tall and slim, with eyes that danced with secrets,
With stories of the now and of the then and of the when.
He came to touch and feed off the pain.
He came to allow her precious periods to be a person.
And once again, as a shadow slips beside her and gently grasps her hand,
He has come.

What joy, what immense joy, as pain flows from her body,
And to hear his voice, clear and soft,
Ask if today she wanted past, present or was she is ready to begin her journey.
She has waited a long time for her guide,
She has waited to be placed on the path,
And so with a lips chapped, she utters one word, “journey.”
Becoming child-woman her eyes closed, holding his hand, leaving and being led
From a prison of pain and despair, she sees him point the way,
And then he is gone.
Before her in the twilight she sees a path.

She begins the walk.
Now alone, marveling at each moment.
Moments, realizing she moves without pain,
Moments, that no sound of wind or wild animal disturbs her travel,
Moments, of smell, the odor of long forgotten friends and family,
Moments, that others have stepped this way not so long before her.
She laughs with wonder as water running along the walkway streams up a small hill.
She wonders, at the crest of this hill, at the cottage below.

And heeding the call of Home
She finds herself at a window gazing at one huge room,
A room barren of furniture save for a dining table,
Lit with one tall taper, producing the only light to be seen.
Two chairs standing opposite each other at the table,
Reflect the occasional flick of flame.
In one corner, barely visible, what seems to be a couch of crystal,
Half hidden by deep burgundy drapes, that emerge from the ceiling,
And drift and bundle upon themselves on the floor.
Each wall, from floor to ceiling, is shelved.
Each shelve carries its weight of untitled volume,
Some seemingly quite old and others carry sweet scents of well oiled leather.
Wax drips silently onto the table, and she knows,
Someone waits for her to enter and sit.

Settling into the seat, she becomes chilled.
No warmth in these walls or wood, nor heat from the lone candle.
Stirring sounds behind the burgundy curtains, then a man emerges.
No, not a man, but manlike.
Naked, with a physical form unmatched by anything she has ever seen.
He approaches the table, head down, concentrated on carrying a platter,
Hands smooth and powerful, carry a plate with the gentleness of a child;
As if, one false footfall would send the fruit it holds to the floor and all would be lost.

He sits, just beyond the small circle of light the flame casts upon the table.
She no longer fills the air become icy, nor notices anything accept the man.
Light bounces off his body and he moves the plate from his side to hers.
Without a word, he invites her to eat.
Distant memories of succulent sweetness drift up, and she bites the fruit.
Ah, how sensuous this object is in taste,
How its nectar shines as it escapes to form drops of dew upon her lips.
One bite and the man raises his head.

She forgets his offering as she now feasts upon his face.
Lips, solid and perfect, chin and cheeks smooth as alabaster,
Hair, that seems to shift, as if tiny wafts of wind played upon it,
Eyes, like blue light shining thru crystal,
They speak to her, comfort her, know her and accept her.

Eyes that follow the erratic path of a moth as it danced towards the flame.
Another guest, this moth, had entered without warning.
As it spins and tumbles its way to and from the light,
For the moment she became distracted.
The man reaches out and cups the moth between his two hands.
Opening them, the moth slowly flutters to the floor.
His eyes, once again on hers, seem to say,
“How pointless to come into my house and seek light or warmth from my flame.”
Looking once more at the moth and then at him, she knew.
She had called and desired the mage to put her on the path,
Had recognized the memories as she traveled.
Wondered at the cottage with its books and its tenant.
Tasted the fruit and all emotion, wonder and desire,
All her being, free of pain, doubt and regret, sat gazing into his face.

And as he had seemed to speak to her, she now spoke,
“This moment cannot last forever, can we dance?”
The words of a woman-child, simple yet powerful in there meaning.

The man rises and opens his arms to her.
Her eyes never leave his face as she enters his embrace.
A lifetime of sorrow seems to slide away as he holds her.
She feels his body respond erotically, and knows they are moving,
The curtains part as they enter, and she realizes it is not a couch of crystal.
He lays her down on ice, and once again coldness begins to enter her body.
She watches as he bends over her, places a book beside the couch of ice,
And knows that the dance has begun.
Accepting him into her, welcoming him, she gazes for one last time into his eyes,
And sees, the flight of a moth.

Machines begin their hum and beeps.
His hands feel the warmth recede from her.
She has made the journey.
Tears release their hold and fall on crisp white sheets.
He is confused, tired, happy and sad.
He stands and leaves, the woman no longer in need of his talents.
She has traveled far, eaten the fruit and now lies in the arms of Thanatos.

Kent Speer

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