The journeyman ~ in respect of thefrog

Where are you now that you are gone? I look beyond the shadows of night falling and hear your voice of long ago; you spoke well into the day of the vanities and our cerebral distress. I did not understand you then and I do not understand you now. I looked askance at the long bench were you were seated in the Citadel much to my chagrin; as poet and judgement maker spoke loud an inconsistent deliberation in favour of the ensuing night. The dreams of tomorrow lay dissipated by inaction on the part of the misguided lover; now made cuckold of inherent knowledge and desire of the inborn child.

I loved you then and I love you now. Only the terms of engagement have altered the course it naturally undertook without consideration of the past and most likely its undisturbed indifference. The cherry-blossom cannot comfort an aged soul by one so young in existence and yet made old by the consequence of my unjust ignorance. I look to the Sun but decipher only the moon-shadows as I wander this solitary path of retribution. Time cannot heal for there is no time in which to compensate for the ruination of our combined allegiance.

The clock ticks and the world will turn away from the notion of settlement and resolve. The friend of yesterday is turned stranger lost amid the bog lands held dear by Atlantic shore and ancestry, alike. I turn to face the dawn. The multitude has departed long since abandoned by the sadness and the tears of the clown. The road ahead though defined as perilous by those that understand less about the journey once undertaken in that age where solitude and forgiveness would deny our soulful future devoid of retribution. To live alone becomes the consequence of injustice to the eyes of the blinded beggar.

My words fail because of the inexactness of the crime. I acknowledge the ghost of our indifference that was laid prematurely upon your cindered path. I knew not even of my own misunderstanding of the truth lay dormant beyond a cyclic consequence of my time but not of yours. A true love can only begotten by understanding and compassion on the part of the delinquent made so enforced by hatred and loathing of self. I began the journey with belief in the resurrection; yet to pass. I remain at the cross-road in the moonlight though bright is shrouded once again by the wintered mist.

©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011