#themelodyduster

[themelodyduster]

Her joy was swept away on an autumn breeze. A winter chill swam through her veins, pumping deep within her core as she gazed at piles of gold hurled in great bundles from somewhere up above. The moon had called out to her, collapsing in a calm pool beneath her window sill, gleefully crawling over her bed sheets until it woke her. Disturbing the nightmares that brought her past to life every time her head hit the pillow. She took to the stairs barefoot, letting the cold night air that waited for her beyond the door consume them. The old elm tree stood in the ghostly pale light looming over her; its branches creaking and calling out for her to climb up its old trunk. As she traced her fingers around its base she felt fond memories flowing warmly back into her fingertips. A child playing in the shade on a hot summers day, books and colouring pencils spread between her legs, her boots caked with mud and her hair wildly tangled, scooped up in great bundles by the wind. The skeleton of fonder memories stood in front of her now, calmly soothing her tears and beckoning for her to join the deathly air between its bare branches; to allow herself to drift away and dangle gently from its limbs. The stars watched on in their millions as she fell to her knees. Clawing away at the dirt and digging a shallow grave for the tired journal in her hands. It’s pages oozing with despair as the dirt suffocated it slowly, smothering the screams. She buried her grief at the base of the elm and fidgeted in her pockets for a small box of matches. Striking one she watched the flames bob in anticipation, jumping into the child’s grave, consuming her past and hushing the elm’s pleas. The warmth galloped through her, melting the wall of ice she had built to shelter herself from the world and warmly cradled her heart. The crimson flames danced about in her ebony eyes. She felt alive as she turned her back on the past and began to waltz back into her future.

[themelodyduster]

I never understood her ability to peer straight through me like frosted glass. I am tired and cold to the touch. The old cathedral window high up above, forgotten and left longing after the vibrancy and colour that I once possessed long ago. The melodies float up past me, moving me; vibrating my glass panels in their old cast iron framework. They forever tempt me. I throw them back into the empty space, eager for an impressive echo as the melodies bounce in glee of the walls. But the dear souls below don’t notice. The sound is too harsh and far away to pay attention to. I fear I will shatter into thousands of useless shards. I want the melodies to be my own, to seep deep inside me and colour my core with the violets and crimsons that I desire still. Something I desperately yearn for, yet cannot seem to bring myself to commit, I don’t seem to have the tools to chip away at the frost at my edges. When winter comes, I feel myself slowly fading away, ignorant of the masses that take place somewhere below until a singer takes up residence, spending her time alone and nesting between the rises in the choir loft. She comes regularly, singing to me when no-one else is around. Her tone mature and vibrant, yet soothing, unlike the congregation who continuously hurled up their hymns hoping they would reach a higher place, not allowing me time to breathe them in. She arrived out of the blue on a chilly afternoon breeze, sometimes bringing a friend to breathe life into the old organ. Dusting the keys with a gentle hand, the pipes billowing a happy tune that shakes my insides. The singer joins the organ in song, calmly tracing her fingers across my frost ridden fractures; her hands warm and she listens to my reply as her voice bounces off my surface. She studies my ornate patterns, admiring my tired beauty as the sun shines through me. The warmth slowly seeping back and the frost melts with the arrival of spring. My colour and vibrancy doesn’t seem all that far away.

[themelodyduster]

Whimsical world, where hast thou gone? Have you ever felt the need for clutter? It starts off as something little, perhaps an ornament of sorts, and then it grows. It is a living organism; it nourishes itself and breathes slowly in the corner, growing. We fill the space with this whimsical clutter, we need to. Glass jars of sorts are carefully placed in the corner. An old crochet blanket, slaved over with love, is used to snuggle in a place in the middle. I now feel snug as a bug in a rug; I am surrounded by the clutter. Breathing, heart beating, it’s growing. I can feel it slowly suffocating me. I needed to fill the empty space. I can’t breathe. It is too much. Stop.  Too much clutter, leave me be. I need to rid myself of all this, the meaningless ornaments. A glass cat sits, staring at me from its perch in the corner. I want to strip the walls and shelves back to nothingness, start over. It’s falling on top of me. Then the light comes and it begins to all disappear, piece by piece; why must I always start again? It’s gone now, all gone. The space is stark, white, cold, empty; the bare minimum. It’s scary, all the white, I don’t like all this space. Just like the silence we fill with words, the space we fill with clutter. I place the glass cat on its rightful perch in the corner of the room. It starts again, and I can’t help but smile. 

[themelodyduster]

Lost and alone

Reaching out for something that is no longer there

Reaching out and then falling

Falling through the darkness

Then crashing onto the steel cold slab beneath

You reach out one more time

It is scentless and tasteless and cold

Time to retreat back inside something warm at first

Until that too begins to turn silver at the edges

Alone in the darkness until the silver takes over

Sucking you dry till you are an empty

A capsule used up and now left on the slab 

Reach out, no, you have done that before, it’s useless.

[themelodyduster]

She had the hands of an artist. Worn and often stained from the dirt, for she liked to spend her waking hours in the garden. Flowers of all kinds spilled over the edges of her garden, all nurtured lovingly from the earth with her own hands. Coaxing them from the ground with sweet melodies that floated from her lips seeping into the soil like the rain water from a gentle downpour. It was a space to call her own, a place to take her in when she needed it most and in time, she would watch the garden nurture her own child. A haven that had grown older, like herself, and was now capable of giving back its warmth and love. Her hands too grow older. A once smooth canvas made for the lines that map out her life. Her fingertips callused from playing the piano for hours at a time, her palms smooth from cradling the dirt and her fingernails worn down from the nerves that continuously rippled up in her chest. Time would soon take her voice, sucking the melodies out from deep within her soul; stealing that natural ability to communicate in her, peeling away her means to nurture. But if you look closely, the little girl's story lingers over her hands. She will always reach out for you. The same nurturing hands that tenderly stroked away the hair from a young girls face, that comforted and consoled a trembling child, and if you listen to her. You can still hear her. Her voice weakened and frail, but her soul is just as alive and loving as it ever was.

[themelodyduster]

I need to escape again. I need to run to the edges of the earth, yet there is no-one to run for. No single soul I wish to protect with all of my heart. 

For now, I fear, it is all just a balance of social niceties. A structured life with previously decided mannerisms and a delicate position of tongue. Restrained, withheld, a life I am not strong enough to take on, a role I could never bring myself to play. 

I am constantly aware of my class and background. Never be ashamed of your background or where you come from they told me. I cant help sometimes but to notice the differences. Do not try to wrap your words in honey, soothe me, tell me the class division was torn away years ago, for it was not. You do not have to venture far through the curtains to see that. 

Little children, bare footed bundles of joy play in the dirt by the railway. The industrial class busy working, the well oiled machine groaning away, its stretchmarks grow as its belly widens. 

I am a rarity. A wandering artist who belongs no where. I fear I will never belong any where, but just maybe a career of opportunity and age will see a difference. Time will tell. 

[themelodyduster]

Dancing Demons

Little demons dance about my lips. Their feet are frozen to the touch, burning me as they carry out their taunting little ritual. Even the strongest among us will eventually fall and die. Like a tall and beautiful oak tree, worn down by the elements and eventually caving in to them until there is nothing left. My tongue is possessed; rapidly spitting out the words of hatred which were once left somewhere dormant at the bottom of my heart and in the darkest recesses of my mind. Not even the strength of my warm pursed lips keep the cruel remarks inside of me. 

The witch spits out her words, possessed by her own demons that she now holds close and dear. Slowly forging them into metal plates as they screamed in the heat of the fire, reminding herself of who she had been and making up the armor that protected her now, from the outside world. My body feels the need to purge all of its evils. I am no longer able to contain them within the cool and metallic exterior. 

When will it all end? An exorcism is underway. The warmth leaves my fingertips and my knees buckle under the heavy steel plates, just like the old oak tree. An evil power that was no longer my own weapon to yield, leaving me weak, scarred and damaged.  

[themelodyduster]

I wander through the sandstone halls of my childhood Tears of grief oozing down the walls A bundle of souls are held tight to my chest until my grasp weakens and they are lost again Tossed out to the street by a sea of green as the bells ring out until I am all alone. I welcome the warmth from the rabbit hole Arms outspread and eyes wide open Time spent in the dark all eager for the melodies that float through the little keyhole More struggles, more tears for a potion to ensure I was the right fit. The Cheshire Cat was a tease and wise beyond imagine, constantly beckoning me to choose a path I'm alone and still not the right fit for this strange land But she smiles, for this cat can guess the future Tangling me in harsh and kind words Guiding me and strengthening me for Wonderland . A tea party was to be had one fine morn New friends as mad as I, spilled great volumes of tea in glee as we partied late into the evening Little stars twinkling above as we shared our dreams The melodies flowing in and out of our mouths, covering us with a blanket of warmth. Content am I, singing with the flowers Our colours more vibrant than ever before. Chasing the Cat, I bumped into a little girl in blue She mumbled about a fall down a rabbit hole A scowl planted on her young face I take her lost hand into my own and open my heart. We all laugh around the table as the melodies are continuously loved and exchanged A smile looming in the dark trees above us But the little girl in blue grows needier, taking all we have to give, her tea cup is too small The smile from the dark is no longer satisfying. Melodies scatter as tea cascades over the table edges The little girl in blue storms away, treading down the poor little poppies, their petals tired and tattered I find her a top a red mushroom, unexplainable tears seeping down its edges, please dear one, come and find the white rabbit with me. Little blue is not quite finished, crushing vocal violets as she runs from my words And the strongest in the flower garden now dazed I am left alone sitting under a red mushroom Petting a ball of warmth beside me as flowers murmur their melodies, a darkness floods over Wonderland.