Mr-Tambourine-Man
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2009
- Messages
- 131
Pass a Stranger on the Way Down
By John Scott Holman
Yes, I followed the boy…
I followed him because his hair bled sunlight,
And his eyes were both mysterious and kind,
Yes, it was the eyes that got me…
Eyes as dark and rich as fine coffee, a touch of cream swirling slowly within them,
His lips were as thick as his cheeks were full,
Full and pink cheeks, perfectly smooth,
Infant skin just begging a delicate touch from a delicate soul,
Perhaps someone with a silly straw hat and sand between her toes.
Yes, I followed him…
I followed him a great length,
And though I made haste he always eluded me,
His shadow dancing tipsy-turvy against a sequin studded horizon,
We came to the darkened edge of the papier-mâché forest
And I considered turning back, knowing well the forest was thought to be dangerous,
But the trees parted for the boy and he entered without fear,
I waited awhile, temptation and apprehension wrestling in my stomach,
Then the sad and strange music of a carved wooden flute came whispering through the leaves,
And the leaves took to life and began to make their own music,
The haunting music of every crumpled newspaper blowing through darkened alleyways,
Yes, the boy was playing the song…
It was a “wandering song,” like those mentioned in the books long turned to dust,
The sky was darker now and the clouds took on familiar shapes I could not name,
Frightening shapes I had seen in dreams when bedridden with high fever,
It was too late to turn back now; I could not even had I wanted to…
The eyes… The music…
What’s a preacher’s daughter to do?
I could say I entered the forest, but no, instead I will say the forest entered me,
It was a strange world, this forest, and I did not know whether to be scared or sad… or both,
The boy was far ahead, his shadow twisting easily through the tangle of papier-mâché branches,
The trees seemed to know the boy and let him move through them as he pleased,
But their brittle fingers clawed at my shawl, hastily dragging me further,
Now I was truly afraid for I could sense the forest’s hunger,
And knew I was being swallowed, swallowed alive,
What’s more I’d lost sight of the boy,
My heart was racing and I cried out,
“Boy, please?! Where are you?”
There was a long silence before the trees began to laugh,
A cracked wheezing laugh, cancerous and sinister,
My God what had I done?!
The trees were closing in around me as the fog curled upward from the cold earth,
I knew this was the end and cried out for God to save me,
But not even God could hear me there,
Before the blackness took me away I saw the boy standing before me,
Now almost close enough to touch,
His cherubic smile had twisted wickedly, as if reflected in a funhouse mirror,
And though his eyes were beautiful and mysterious as ever, there was no trace of kindness left in them…
This broke my heart and filled me with guilt,
My last thoughts were of my father; my last feeling was not fear but shame,
Then I fell into darkness,
I cannot say if I ever awoke, if I am drunk or I am dreaming,
I know only that I am a small tree, one of the newest in this artificial forest,
Yet already my branches are hungry,
And I know one day they will feed on someone,
Perhaps a merchant, perhaps a delivery boy…
Or perhaps a preacher’s daughter in a silly straw hat with sand between her toes.
By John Scott Holman
Yes, I followed the boy…
I followed him because his hair bled sunlight,
And his eyes were both mysterious and kind,
Yes, it was the eyes that got me…
Eyes as dark and rich as fine coffee, a touch of cream swirling slowly within them,
His lips were as thick as his cheeks were full,
Full and pink cheeks, perfectly smooth,
Infant skin just begging a delicate touch from a delicate soul,
Perhaps someone with a silly straw hat and sand between her toes.
Yes, I followed him…
I followed him a great length,
And though I made haste he always eluded me,
His shadow dancing tipsy-turvy against a sequin studded horizon,
We came to the darkened edge of the papier-mâché forest
And I considered turning back, knowing well the forest was thought to be dangerous,
But the trees parted for the boy and he entered without fear,
I waited awhile, temptation and apprehension wrestling in my stomach,
Then the sad and strange music of a carved wooden flute came whispering through the leaves,
And the leaves took to life and began to make their own music,
The haunting music of every crumpled newspaper blowing through darkened alleyways,
Yes, the boy was playing the song…
It was a “wandering song,” like those mentioned in the books long turned to dust,
The sky was darker now and the clouds took on familiar shapes I could not name,
Frightening shapes I had seen in dreams when bedridden with high fever,
It was too late to turn back now; I could not even had I wanted to…
The eyes… The music…
What’s a preacher’s daughter to do?
I could say I entered the forest, but no, instead I will say the forest entered me,
It was a strange world, this forest, and I did not know whether to be scared or sad… or both,
The boy was far ahead, his shadow twisting easily through the tangle of papier-mâché branches,
The trees seemed to know the boy and let him move through them as he pleased,
But their brittle fingers clawed at my shawl, hastily dragging me further,
Now I was truly afraid for I could sense the forest’s hunger,
And knew I was being swallowed, swallowed alive,
What’s more I’d lost sight of the boy,
My heart was racing and I cried out,
“Boy, please?! Where are you?”
There was a long silence before the trees began to laugh,
A cracked wheezing laugh, cancerous and sinister,
My God what had I done?!
The trees were closing in around me as the fog curled upward from the cold earth,
I knew this was the end and cried out for God to save me,
But not even God could hear me there,
Before the blackness took me away I saw the boy standing before me,
Now almost close enough to touch,
His cherubic smile had twisted wickedly, as if reflected in a funhouse mirror,
And though his eyes were beautiful and mysterious as ever, there was no trace of kindness left in them…
This broke my heart and filled me with guilt,
My last thoughts were of my father; my last feeling was not fear but shame,
Then I fell into darkness,
I cannot say if I ever awoke, if I am drunk or I am dreaming,
I know only that I am a small tree, one of the newest in this artificial forest,
Yet already my branches are hungry,
And I know one day they will feed on someone,
Perhaps a merchant, perhaps a delivery boy…
Or perhaps a preacher’s daughter in a silly straw hat with sand between her toes.
