Wednesday, March 31, 2010
FEASTING WITH A FOOL
Sleep wont come for the weary. She says write it out but when I do I bleed out. Holding the pen so tightly for so long the blood trickles down and I am writing in my own DNA. A force to be reckoned with then for there could be no mistaken that the words there of are my own. He whispered. He whispered. Did you hear me? I hear him…he is whispering but I don’t want to listen. I opened my flesh to him and as he consumed it he didn’t care to share from his own pantry. He ate at my table and brought nothing to it. Ill mannered- perhaps his upbringing, perhaps just what is lurking inside a man dressed in honor. So at last when the meal was done he, returning home, belly heavy and fully content, took time to digest. The time was longer than needed, it seemed. However, when he took off is honorable cloak he found that he had not digested the meal as well as he thought and what was left began to churn in his gut. Churning and churning until all at once he felt as if what he had taken of was taking him and it bulged in his throat. He came to me, white and sickened offering a red wine much the color of his own blood, feeling he was choking on what he had enjoyed as punishment for not opening his pantry to me before. Naturally I let him in and sat him down at the same table and poured us both a drink from the bottle he had brought. It was by far the most bitter, foul tasting cup I had experienced in my time. It was fairly well aged at 16 years but undrinkable non the less. I sipped on it anyway. Looking at him, I could see he was fading away. In and out of the realms of life he went. I stood up, realizing he had poisoned the wine, himself, his entire pantry and now even me. I was befuddled for a moment then quickly went and got the antidote. We shared it but he required much care and so I called out to him often reminding him to take of the antidote and report to the doctor. The doctor found him to be almost at the point of death and placed him in isolation. So, he is on the island of recovery and I am in town. He whispers to me in the wind and it carriers all the way here but I am to the point that I don’t want to hear his whispers anymore. They taunt me. I am lost though I reach out to those I pushed away. I am in pain, the torture of my mind to understand why that of which I fed so healthily and freely turned to poison me and whispers request for me to lie about his condition. Shall I sub come to that of which I despise-a liar, or do I let my friend rot on the island as I continue on my quest. I fear he is a riddle even unto himself that only GOD is just enough to answer. I wish I could stop the whispering.