Jb Cabret

The red river flows from the greens of the west, a field of nothing but pain in the chest.

I stood on top of the greens and the reds, and planted a seed on an earthen bed. “Run away,” whispers the blue lady holding my hair, I can’t because I have my long shadows following my way. And I begin to shift, to watch the lady blue in jove was I, and teary-eyed, for she’s a shadow too. Here, I lay my dirt, for dirt was all I had before, here, I kiss the wounds of her hand, red in sore. And wounds were they, displeasing and acrid, yet none ever knew that she was erratic, uncanny, impassive, hence wounds in dead hues. There, we stand, purple tulips all we have, “I am found,” says the lady of the land. And all is done, red waters turn blue, all fields of dearth were planted anew; for lady is rich, and lady is true; and dashed in kaleido- from what once was blue. A field of truth is a joy in the chest, the red river once flowed from the greens of the west. END

This isn’t love Nor hate, nor rage; This isn’t care; Nor fangs been bared. Tis’ apathy; Yes! tis’ certain, I uncare now, I’m a villain. I who did none, yet maddened all, You, who saw none, but madness befall. I had once cared, now cry brittle sand, I pity you; your soul, your heart.

Silence, nothing but your only company. Silence, all that separates Time from itself. You hear nothing but yourself, alone, walking with the cold air, and breathing your thoughts in. For you cannot eat the world. You walk. You pause. And you walk again. And there, following you. Time, all by itself. Watching. Asking. Waiting. 

As you decide to eat your lunch, you think about what you have done yesterday. Talked with friends or the people you think you’re friends with, read books, logged on the internet. And you pause for a moment, between sips, because you feel a tingling sensation rushing from your back to your neck. Perhaps it is the cold air. Perhaps. 

You then realize it’s not. You see, the cold days are over and the yellows and reds are out in the greens again. There, watching you, is Time with its fast-beating heart; asking for your reply, is Time with its plain, sad eyes; and waiting, just waiting, is Time with its welcoming hand.

You hear nothing but the silence. You then find out that you are ever more alone, not in this moment, but in between the gaps of time. Knowing you have acknowledged the idea of it all, there, breathing, is Time.

The movement of water in the glass, the sound of trees dancing just outside your house, and the distant cries of the city burning in white flames—you start to notice everything. For Time has given you time. And between the gaps in time, you fall in its beauty.