In Full Conscience and Joy

In Full Conscience and Joy

It is, with full conscience and joy, I stride into the trifling yet requisite possible present. I praise the old language of prayer for the prospect. A trembling romance haunted the deepest depths, no clarion hymns coincided with the exalting launch or crippling conclusion; only a somber dirge likened. Then come, the subtlest melodiousness arose, it ceased the mournful chorus. And, without any signs of miracle, the cutting rumblings collected themselves, spiraled into permanent exile, so the sweetness of living could be recalled. Defunct Lover swallowed down with pleasure. Voracious thief. An attempt to deliberately abolish a living woman. A living woman, who aspired to chance the fullness of love, gravely misled in lieu.

Nothing left, nary a memento. So long it was, to remain caught in the unrequited rustle of aloneness, bare subject to the din of hunger and thirst for affections lost.  Entreated to stubborn dreams of the future despite an ebbing hand, the withdraw of a wanton gaze. So long it took, to recall how to adequately articulate the syllables required to illuminate the darkest of things.

It is, with full conscience and joy, I stretch myself across a penciled page, to erase the dusky body of disappointment, to take back the firmament, everything in between, ink it there, bold marks of freedom, contentment re-imagined.

It is, with full conscience and joy, I sliver the past with an open heart, wide eyes, raised chin, walk into the quavering unknown to discover a new bliss.

A brief awaiting, underway.

A new world, exposed.

Full conscience.

Abundant joy.

***

Last night, on the way to Halifax to see Ria Mae, I scribbled my way through this sort of prose poem. I considered breaking the lines apart, but it looked prettier this way, in paragraphs. I don’t know about you, but for me, it packs more of a punch in prose form. I mean, it may not pack much of anything for you at all, but it certainly was fun to write.

What’s more, it feels good to hear the rusty wheels in my brain turning. Perhaps all the reading I’ve been doing oiled them? No matter, any day I write something, anything, is a good day. Today is another good day. Go me!

I can tell you with great certainty, I’d give anything to be out on an artist date right now. But alas, the 9 to 5 calls. Writing is my passion, but I still have to pay the bills.

In propinquity,

Nic