there are moments
that ring tiny little bells
in your mind. Usually
in the midst of unrest
or uncertaintity, even in times
when you see a beautiful painting
and want to step into its beauty
because everything in your
world remains as it has
yet you are changing, growing, becoming what it is you are…
maybe as something that could
as beautiful as the painting.
Sometimes those bells are quiet and sporadic, off in the distance, so subtle
you’re able to let their sound
fade. And then there are those
that just keep ringing. The
kind vibrating through your
nerves loudly, ringing harshly.
Bells that ring abrasively for so long it becomes caustic.
But it’s not the bells fault, it’s the
bellringer. The one that offes no
mercy. The one that doesn’t understand
the damage of abrasive tones
nor cares the torture they inflict
in the ceaselessly repetitive noise.
How long do you stay,
stand there taking the clanging
and the banging?
The bellringer just keeps doing the
same thing…no matter the asking,
the pleading, or if you change tactics,
even if you use gentleness, or tenderness
Despite all the years you’ve given love,
of tending to needs and wants,
the bellringer continues as if you
are nothing that matters, nothing to be heard, or seen.
Your heart can only take so much
before it is harmed and roughed by the
continuous noise, by the negative
vibrations, the constant barage of
unpleasantries, before it begins to break apart…to erode.
It is hard to move when you are bruised
and curled up in the fetal position. Somehow you are a pile limbs so broken you can’t walk, only crawl, hardly move. And your ears are worn and bleeding, your hands pressing hard against your head trying to escape even the smallest of decibles.
You open your eyes and you see the other
parts of you. They are laughing, smiling,
moving through the motions, but you
you know underneath they feel the
negative chime of the bells. It is seen in they way they they respond, interact, in anger and harsh tones such as the loud noise the bellringer makes.
Your heart starts beating faster, you have to save the other parts of you and all the bits and pieces that have fallen to the ground. You get out the needle and thread, and start trying to repair the rips and tears, sewing clumsily the pieces back together. Yet it’s not the same. Not the perfected stitches you once made, with new thread. The heart is now weaker for lack of ability and damage that’s taken its toll. then you realize have to exercise that Muscle, paint it with vibrancy, with colors that reflect the beauty of beating wildly and steadily. To present itself to love as it should be…
I fear I forgotten how…
Did I ever really know…
Clang goes the bell, in repetition, a cacophony. I stand ready, nearby with my needle and thread, and my knife to the rope, in the hands of the bellringer…