Here’s to I and what lays past
The paleness of the death I swallowed
For I walked much like a ghost
Nothing cherished, nothing hallowed
Formless days and endless nights
Passed my apathetic screen
I was known all over town
As the woman void of dreams
I was known too well in town
As that one without a shadow
Nothing more than mists of grey
Followed me in trails of sorrow
My two eyes could not remember
The sweet light of joy’s highness
And the children cried out, pointing,
‘There goes Lady Lazarus!’
I must laugh when I consider
What I once named ‘life’ and ‘warmth’
For it seems my blood was iron
And my rest a bed of thorns
When I wrapped myself in pleasures
Poison seemed to line the firs
Of the things I sought for comfort
Smiles were underpaid actors
I had stooped to gaping graves
Strength lay dormant six feet under
Till the day I heard a voice
Smashing deadly tombs asunder
Black as ink my darkness was
The pool disturbed by calling voice
I knew it, though a stranger to me
“Come forth, Lady Lazarus!”
Drawn forth by a will beyond
What I knew myself to carry
I arose and moved in rhythm
To the heartbeat of his beauty
Into daylight, swallowed whole
By the eyes of he who called me
Awestruck by mere suggestion
That my hope had come to find me
Like a child I wept and breathed
As though they were my first inhalings
And my fears were laid to rest
There behind me, with my failings
To this day I cannot render
Speech that might depict the hopeless
Love I feel for He who whispered
“Come forth, Lady Lazarus.”
I was desperate to make him see that everything that he could be, everything that he had taught me to be, was everything he had forgotten.
But each time I pointed to the heights from which he’d fallen, he called me blind.
Each time I sang the songs we used to call our anthems, he declared them out of tune.
Anger flared in my eyes as I surveyed the injustice; as I watched a good man being torn down by shadows. I was angry for him.
But anger made him feel attacked, tears made him feel superiour, silence made him feel self-conscious and ignored, words made him draw out his rusty sword and fight a battle of needless defence.
Each word of love was rebuked as charity. Each smile fed his self-pity. And soon enough he deemed himself cured and standing tall. He declared himself surrounded with friends and support.
And I watched him, as he swept his problems under the carpet and stood tall in pride and low in wisdom. I watched as he surrounded himself with words that glorified a person he hated; himself. I watched as all his lies turned to hard iron, like his face, like his eyes. He stood like a Victor on a battlefield where his own purpose lay dead.
And I cried and pleaded for him to see it. And I hurt more than he did at his own heart’s demise. But can a being force another to love themselves? Can I push truth into a mind that thinks it is full, or offer help to a man who thinks he is not drowning, but surfing the waves?
In return for my love of him I recieved mockery, hardness and twisted words. My motives were doubted, my advice ignored, my love not receieved.
I am not Saint, nor do I stand innocent in anything, but for the grace of he who is Perfect. But I do know this: I grieve terribly over this loss. And if I could I would forget every wound he created for the sake of saving him. But I cannot. And he will not.
I mourn over a lost friend. And more so now then ever before, for not only is he lost to me, but to himself as well.
And all I can hope for is that one day he shall turn desperate.