The Girl in The Box of Reign
( as Hope kisses The Sky )
The Man who is My Brother, Teacher, SoulGuide, and Friend, and who, though having trod upon this Earth far fewer Days than I, had begun His Journey to Divine Awareness when just a small Boy, and which, are Legends, for quite anOther Day . . .
and on quite a specific Day in The Course of Our collective Path, and having determined that I was poised on some particular Ledge of Know, proceeded to open what is now affectionately known as A Window, and began to reveal that which My Eyes and My Heart were ready to embrace, by The Telling, of a simple Story . . .
I am reasonably sure, that He knew not where this Tale comes from, beyond and within the vast Reservoir of His Mind, though in later Years, We came to know quite well The Source, and for now, can postulate on It’s Concept having been born inside the Novels of either Irving, or Michener . . .
and after a brief synopsis of the equally brief Life of a Girl in a Box, which, four Years later, would become The Story, called In The Spring of ’42, He asked . . . “Who, was in The Box, with Her ?” . . .
and, Lo’ and Behold, in the quietest Recesses of My Memory, I heard, quite distinctly, and with a Ring of profound Sadness, an Echo . . . and yet, it would take six long Months to decipher It’s Significance, and therefore, The Answer, which when fully understood would cause the Final Piece of The Grand Design to fall quietly into Place, and so beginning the glorious Endeavor that shall One Day herald a far greater Purpose behind The Rhyme and The Reason, because it is The Remembrance of this Day in this Girl’s Life, when The Sum of All Our Fears were manifest, and held inside the darkest corner of Every Woman’s Heart since The Dawn of Man, and Her Spirit seeks only to ensure that this horror Never Again walks The Face of this Earth, flying as She is Now on The Wings of a Butterfly named Freedom, knowing that She has stood reflected in The Eyes of Forgiveness, toward Whom even Kings must voyage, and hoping All Her Wishes might for Ever come to Pass, for as Long as She Always remembers, and for as Long as She Dreams, of a Rocking Horse . . .
and while these two Stories reside within Dream I and Book I, I thought perhaps they might deserve a more prominent Place in the grand Design, as well as to illuminate that which drives not only the passionate extent of My Endeavors, here, but those that reveal the very Essence, of the ~terrible Beauty~ that will for Ever echo through the Corridors of My Heart . . . from this Moment on, ’til All Moments, fade . . .
In The Spring, of ‘42
( barbed Whyer )
Once there was a Girl, of a Name unKnown,
who found HerSelf, wandering, amidst The Chaos
of a Concentration Camp, built for Those whose Innocence
would One Dei free The World, from The Hammers, in The Fists,
of The Blind, and The HeartLess, Gods, of War . . .
Fourteen Summers, was All She had to hold,
Fourteen Summers, was All She had to give,
Fourteen Summers, was All She had unTold,
Fourteen Summers, was All She had, to live . . .
as She bore The Weight of Her Father’s Name,
and with It, All, of Humanity’s Shame, Life,
as She knew It, would nEver be The Same,
and through Each Moment of Evil endured,
Her Faith nor Her Hope could Ever be lured,
out beyond The Gates of Her Promised Land . . .
and in This Kingdom, of Her unWavering Trust,
She held on to Her Dream as She knew She must,
and although She may suffer from The Follies of Men,
She holds Fast, to God’s Hand, as She waits, until When,
She will fly, knowing Why, She had endured All These Things,
because in Her Heart, and in Her Soul, rests This Voyage, of Kings . . .
Dreams, of A Rocking Horse
( and The Sound, of Bells )
. . . and as a Host of Stars ceased Their endless Trek, to witness, and to wonder, the Night, began to reign . . .
She is a Child of Innocence, and just coming of Age, lost and so unbearably alone, lying naked and helpless among the Ever-circling dogs of Chaos, whose blood-red Eyes cast their hideous glances upon Her, waiting with the Patience of Stones for Her to fall under the Weight of their Intent . . .
sumHow, She knows that this Day, is to be Her Last among the Living, and before The Sun can pierce the death-laden Fog that hangs above this Place, that cloaks Her Skin in a poisonous shroud, that wraps itself around every suffocating Breath She takes, and lays upon Her Tongue like the charred residue of Her Prayers, whispered quietly to a God that has abandoned All that remains of this Killing Ground, to the Evil that walks in the Hearts of Men, She surrenders . . .
trembling, as Always, from hunger, and from thirst, and the bone-chilling cold, and the Fear that moves through Her emaciated Body like some perverse Dance, keeping Time with The Sound of Her Tears, as They fall to floor of The Box that is Her Final Resting Place, built below the Surface of the frost-heavy Earth, still echoing the Cries of Hopelessness above, and still trampled, by the shiny black Boots, of the Wicked . . .
slowly, She lifts Her Mind toward The Crack in The Sky, a hole in the lid of The Box, where She feels the meager warmth of The Light of Day upon Her Face, and tries to remember, what Her Eyes can no longer see, because Her Eyes are now shattered Windows upon this World . . . beaten, broken, and blinded, by these Soldiers of Hate . . . for They could not bear to see The Look of Her sweet Innocence, could not bear the Sight of their own guilt-ridden Masks, could not bear their vile Reflections, in the Mirror of their Godless Souls . . .
as the lid of The Box is thrown open, One Last Time, and the flood of Death pours itself upon Her, She is lifted from Her prison by their blood-stained Hands, and always black-leather-gloved, to separate them from The Touch of Her Purity, and She is tossed upon the Ground, where the Marks of Yesterday’s Pain are still etched in the soil, lying there as if to mock them, like the Image, of an Angel . . .
and upon this Angel they fall, one by one, like hounds from Hell, with their lust-swollen Swords piercing Her Body in waves of indescribable humiliation and suffering, infecting Her with the rotting seeds of their unholy Alliance, violating Her, with All of the Evil that Men can do, when they embrace the Heart of Darkness . . .
as the Edge of Night slowly descends upon Her, and the wailing Winds of Fate dance across what is left of Her ravaged and bleeding Form, She is dragged, once more, across the scorched Earth to the open maw of The Box, and thrown back inside, where She lays in the Throes of Desperation, and waits in the gloom, now haunted by the Shadows of Her Oblivion, now silenced, by the Screams of Her Hopelessness, now empty, of All that She ever dreamed Her Life, could be . . .
. . . and as The Host of Stars gaze down upon Her, Their Light enters through the hole in the lid of The Box, and finds Her Reflection, there in The Pool, that is The Sum, of All Her Tears . . .
as The Light shimmers, She feels The Essence of Its Blessing, bathing Her tortured Soul in the sweet Embrace of Its Tenderness, and Its limitless Compassion, and in the quiet Hush of The Moment, She begins to realize that The Vessel of Her Body can no longer endure the battering of wave after wave of Degradation, can no longer harbor Her inextinguishable Thoughts of Hope, and Salvation, that She must let go of The Anchor of This Life, and allow Her Spirit to travel On, toward The Call of a Distant Shore, nourished by The Tides of Promise and Fulfillment, lying SumWhere, just beyond The Reach, of Her Despair . . .
Her Heartbeat, slowly stills, to a Whisper, and then, to a Sigh, and then, ‘Lo, and Behold, from Out of KnowWhere, from Out of The Arms of Silence, from deep within Her Last Breath of Surrender, a Resonance, a Rhythm, an enduring Echo of Redemption, wrapped in the undeniable Cadence of Hooves, hammering the Earth with righteous Intent, rolling across The Fields and Forests of Her Heart, moving as Liquid Thunder, held Aloft, by The Wings of Certainty, becoming The EverLasting Sound, of The Fury, and Yes, of The Might, of The Seven Hundred Horses, of Ebony, Left, and Ivory, Right . . .
and There, as The Dawn slowly cracks The Sky, as The Sun slowly pours Its Warmth upon Each and Every Thing Dear, Now, for The Very Last Time, and in This, The Very Last Place, and slowly, yet with The Might of Titans, and The Grace of a Swan She raises Her Hand, toward A Presence, and slowly, like Cool Water, She caresses The Face, of Forgiveness . . .
. . . and The Host of Stars resume Their Endless Trek across The Heavens, taking with Them The Memory of All that Was, and All that Will Be Again, for They, have for Ever witnessed, and They, will for Ever, wander . . .