Angel of Deliverance
Angel of Endurance; herein lie the scattered thoughts of one old man. One who has somehow proved himself too sly to be killed as easily as one might suppose; the tombstones of recollection of one who has suddenly found himself to be most wounded and ancient, far beyond the course of natural events or count of years.
Angel of Grace; it can be said that these ashes do play a crude witness to ourselves. Not so much to our beginnings or to our futures as, like that Phoenix which we have or will become, to those short lifetimes in-between. Those days and nights left unsaid for far too long. Therefore, I do commend these words and thoughts unto thee. For herein lies that brief and silent witness, the countenance of which shall not be forever darkened by this time, this place, this page, nor this blacknight rage...
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There is a thing which must be said; this stained glass vision of a scarlet rose cast in amber, the shattered reflection of a wasteland caught swirling from the source, the well-spring of your darkling eyes. And who to say it but the Gambler, the Master Thief, the Coward? This one who never cheats but is deceived by his own admissions and impotent gestures, this one who never steals but that he finds himself the only loser; this one who never tries to touch at life but what he falls, dying|screaming|reaching, even as he speaks the only truth he’ll ever know or even wish to understand.
And for all that can be remembered or is worth remembering; for all that is true, even though that truth be distorted by the very fact of its own existence, I have lived forever poised, trembling upon the brink of mine own apocalypse.
Precarious balance, I have nothing to display but a dubious worth; the design of my life has become its own base art. Watching my own fleeting form through the scope of some terrible weapon, I sense the trigger tighten slowly as the crosshairs center inexorably upon my frightened, twisting, sprinting form. I am become mine own remorseless resurrector within these bounded walls.
And I am still now just supported by those fine threads which were hung from these stars by another version of myself so long ago now that the reality of it has become irrelevant. But it was then as now that I played out this masturbatory self-deceit with volatile words and transient phrases. And yes, I did rule the world in my righteousness and my anger! For the madman’s coherencies whirled up through the air, to be taken like lightning by the hands of the accuser, to whirl up and crash down, to thunder down crashing and be nailed to the page by the might and the glory and the tears and the hammering fury of this crazy dream man-child. Who sought only so much as to glimpse into the face of that which he had no name for.
Angel of Deliverance. I have paid and will continue to pay, and am now defined in my very existence by the amount of my payment for this madness. And you alone, you alone out of all the ones that I have known or even dreamt of knowing; you alone know why I have endured until this day.
This castle leans up against the night like some drunken priest. And I have no time for you have not given it to me. And I have no future other than that which I have wrested from you in the dark hours of our nights alone. And both you and I now know that there is more to this life than the remembrance of things past.
And the questions pound their weary litany within my skull, reverberate through all of my words, and spring forth from my fingers in the flashing of an instant that stretches before my mind like some great tunnel—vision of infinite frustration.. and sorrow. For you know these questions as well as myself, and thus there must be no need for any answer. But dear Lady, I must still, in my selfishness and anger, in this raging wisdom of a future that is no future at all—in my suppressed fury and metal black night confusion, I must still confess a most violent rejection of these terms set forth before me now. And I must still ask you why. Why affect men these deeds that have no recourse to sanity? Why do I say this thing and feel these thoughts and dream these dreams? Why is it that our profundity can only be matched by our infinite and casual folly? For it is not that I am unlike other men—wondrous of being! And yes, I do care what my history says of me, will one day say of me in retrospect. Is that what this is all about; one man’s self-deceit?
And no, I cannot change these standards, even for an instant; these standards are the definition of my existence, to change them would be to change myself. And no, I have no desire to change that which I am, even unto the finality of my death or the discontinuance of my being. So just who is it that I would deceive? Why is it that the definition of my being requires me to be mine own worst enemy? Between the darkness of silence and the open windows of confession must lie some great revelation, but I know it not.
Angel of Denial; what must I do to accept the unacceptable? What strange and wondrous elixir might I mix to cure my soul of this madness, this madness that threatens to consume my very essence, my very being with its torment? Must my life strangle out and die for the very act of its attainment? Must I lie dead and broken, slain by life itself? This is absurd reasoning, dear Lady.
And why am I not like all the others, who dream, and in their dreaming find.. reflections only of those things tangible? Other men deal with dreams as they would with ordinary life, but I find myself drifting through time and space seeking only that which I have no name for. My dreams are the full and bloating substance of the interior of suns; white and blinding heat, the decay and creation of life throbs within my brain. Vast and ripening fields of wheat stretch their horizons to the very limit of endurance. The soft crunching of golden leaves underfoot on an English lane in the high noon of autumn. Dark brown eyes that gazed back through nights of bridges burning.
Dear Lady; I ask you now as one who has witnessed internal worlds ripped by violent, thundering tides and velvet nights of promise. I ask you now, forever and again; are these dreams of any worth? You and I, we’ve been through this: the testing, and the answer. And which of us could judge the other when in the judging lies the question?
The Jester stands naked before you now as never before, even as these castle walls do crumble and burn; eyes of wisdom, back of pride... he does laugh! And would listening to him be the same as if he listened to you. Perspective? And just how many angels would be willing to stand on the head of our pin, even if we could count them one by one?
Long time I wandered, until my feet brought this jaded gambler down an unknown, little used road. And with my eyes I looked up, and I opened my heart, and my entire universe did ache to burst. And yes, I did find it then. I found that which I once had no name for. And you alone know why I did endure until that day. For in that hour, in that bright and dangerous hour I did find the season of my deliverance, in the face of a winter moon.
And who is to say whether I won, or lost? This struggle shall never end. It grows. It changes, day to day. And if it is true that I should win, what then would be the prize, honor? glory? Or the demonic rage of insanity. And if it could be that I would lose; oh, please stay with me in that hour, for I would have truly gained and lost mine entire universe of stars.
Angel of Deliverance; glance up when next and every time you stand alone beneath this night sky, for my dreams are but the substance of these stars. And in gazing down, my laughter eyes might meet with yours, and smile. And so there are no questions or answers left for you and me, dear Lady, save just the one. And that I leave to you.
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The Jester was last seen on the outskirts of town, silhouetted against the rainbow sunset, standing his horse. And his voice filtered down from that great distance;
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