The Last Time

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Read an old story, one last time, then turn the page and read on. The best is yet to come.

Submitted: February 10, 2017

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Submitted: February 10, 2017

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The Last Time

 

 

This is the last time.

I’ve told the same story too many times,

The same sad tale, shaking off the same dusty words

To string together a tale of woe told too often

By all the broken hearts of the world.

I’ve tried to say goodbye before,

Just like all the rest,

Though I guess I never had.

But now I think, after all these years,

This is the last time.

This is goodbye, again, one last time,

And you’ll never even hear it.

One more retelling of the old tale,

One more rehash of what everyone is tired of hearing.

This is the last time.

--

I harnessed your essence in my fingertips.

 

With your consent I spilt your blood – the ink for my words. Your beating heart gave vigor to my aching wrist, your muscle gave strength idle dystrophy had stolen from mine, your song filled my once empty soul and with newfound energy the words formed frantic is some hapless helpless attempt in making sense of the swirling hurricane in your eyes, those cracked but unbiased mirrors.

 

You were the clichéd artist’s muse.

 

And then the darkness of an autumn night began to glow and the past swallowed you whole. In an eternal moment you were gone from me, though the fragrance of your hair still clung beneath my chin where you found shelter. You trusted dishonest shadows and let them draw you in, following their false truths in to a dark light, and even when they faded in to their own blackness you stayed, aided in your conviction by lies and hyperbole. I had nothing left to protect, or to protect me.

 

It was sobering in the worst way.

 

Sobering because if I walk the same and talk the same I don’t think the same, I can’t think the same. Now I think with a newfound and unsolicited clarity forced upon me by your broken hand.

 

I went from an ignorant sort of bliss, slurring my thoughts and stumbling through verses, to articulating my art in a way I had never articulated before.

 

The rhythms stopped rhyming, I stopped fighting with timing, hard work and thought gave way to raw emotion. What was once deliberate actions became freestyle passion, all that anguish and angst bled in to the tip of a pen turning black ink red.

 

See that’s the unwanted truth of the expressive, the awful fact of what some call talent, that more often than not the Magnum Opus comes from torment.

Pain. Chicken soup for the artist soul.

 

But through these afflictions and synonyms for pain a gateway for joy and inspiration may open and flow in to the hearts of the hungry spectators, the ears of those who long to hear and deafen their deafness with the roar of…interpretation.

 

The darkness you introduced me to, more pure than that I had witnessed before, showed me what the light was truly made of: a cacophony of new language and ideas all streaming from the same bare emotions of hurt, of loss, and strange ambiance that muddles stranger minds, and gives way to brilliant explosions of, perhaps ironically so, love and happiness.

 

Art.

Born of pain and death.

Loss and mourning.

And more often than most…heartbreak.

Life,

Which is made so much brighter by the darkest nights we live.

 

I owe this lesson to you, and too my thanks, for you taught me that in your foolish folly way, when you left my blood strewn across the pavement but didn’t bother to turn it in to words. Which only means, perhaps, it was a different kind of art than I had grown accustomed.

 

Splatter paint?

 

It doesn’t matter now, and that’s okay.

 

Because I harnessed your essence in my fingertips,

I split your blood and let you spill my own.

I saw myself through your broken mirrors,

And I let you teach me truths I long denied.

I give you my thanks and my love,

In return for what you’d done,

You reinvented my art and gave me new life,

And now the future is brighter

For I know what lies behind me.

The song is over.

---

I’m ending the story now,

And putting it back on my bookshelf,

I’ve read this tale too many times,

And so have too many others

Who I hope will learn to turn the page

And say,

This is the last time.

Goodbye to soured dreams, once so sweet,

Goodbye to the art I used to praise.

Hello to what I’ve yet to write,

To whatever days the sun may shine,

And to whatever darkness is yet to come,

That I’ll prepare to ready,

And gladly so,

For I can only imagine what those storms will bring,

And what I’ll shape in the mud leftover,

Or what will grow in the aftermath next Spring.

 

This is the last time.

So I’ll weep.

And I’ll smile.

And I’ll love.

And I’ll remember.

Because this is the last time.


© Copyright 2018 Farren N. Keys. All rights reserved.