see the crescent of a new moon barely visible above the horizon and recite aloud an old poem
from school -- a poem that I never fully understood as a child, but finally find its meaning within
the departing boys:
“Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.”
I force myself to look to the stars or the moon, but instead my eyes wander inexplicably to the
old graveyard astride the playground. My gaze trails among the misshapen marble, forlorn in
stark contrast to the playground at its heart. Once again, I am reminded that stories must end and
stories unwritten lay forever beneath the virginal clay of an idea.
The gravestones are oversized and haphazardly scattered: some large, a few are small, while
others stick out at crooked angles. With the boys gone and all possible stories shredded by their
absence, I am reminded of the inevitable. This graveyard will spill onto the playground with the
constant creeping of the fingers of death, a monster that comes for everyone. Even now it
searches for the absent boys. One day, I will face the devoured playground, the loss of the
stalwart youth, and Sunset will become the final resting spot of those who lose their struggle.
With an exhale that mingles resignation and composure, I close the curtains over Sunset, shut
away the lost light and the lost stories in equal measure.
I turn to my final hideaway, my Twilight window. Here I repose, my gaze fixed on the aperture
of forever. The iridescent shine of the moon unravels into Twilight. In subtle beauty, the cool
shades of indigo usher stars into their full elegance, where they illuminate my world in ways the
sun never could. In this place my hope and ideas combine unbidden into incredible tales I never
quite hold on to in any other window, in any other corner of my mind, or sparkling slice of my
soul.
The glimmering romance of newborn moonbeams spread their smooth shades over everything.
Within the depths of shadows the presence of a muse is summoned, she mingles delicately within
the reciprocation of glow and gloom. Here, in their company, I spend as much time as they will
allow. Sitting beneath this lunette, I have waited for many years to write one story. The muse
seduces me with her splendor, her soft kiss fills me with hope and desire. Her caress saturates
my senses and gives me an urgency I lack even when faced with all of the possibilities of the
corybantic youths. Her tender ministrations elate me with an invigorating passion which even
surpasses the desire I feel when I gaze upon the perfection of the blue sparrow.
Before I greet Twilight, each day is filled with hopeful, fresh empty pages, offering sanctuary to
the Story that lingers at the tip of my pen. A story so fresh, so alive, it refuses to resign itself to
capture on the page. But at the end of the day in the company of the silvery muse, I am reminded
of my failure as iridescent shades of Twilight illuminates blank pages as my beacon of defeat.
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