Lyrics
From the hazed cove behind my eyes,
Idle and futile,
Emerging false hope silhouettes with come-hither intentions
Flirt with my subconscious,
Teasing as they dance along the verge of cognizance
But never close enough for an epiphany release.
One memory takes pity.
Faint, but present.
Vague, but kind.
My hand outstretched with cautious tone
Like propositioning a butterfly.
With aesthetic serenity,
A movement forward to admit me inside.
A flutter of wings,
A flicker, a flash—a Bioscop projection.
A pattern of synchronized images,
Just fast enough for my mind to compute.
Immobile enrapture.
A silent film I cannot stop.
Kissed by sepia lips, against all will.
A grainy texture to my tongue,
The organic taste of vintage,
Filling senses inside that shouldn’t be connected to my mouth.
Strange and unfamiliar,
But somehow sewn into the fabric of my descent,
The way a leaf would feel upon meeting a root;
So far, yet so connected.
The retreat of lips widens perspective
To reveal my setting—a modern city boulevard,
Busy and vehement and so suddenly loud,
Rendering me dazed and disoriented.
Stumbled steps, and clutching ears to drown out
Cars and dogs, sirens, alarms, horns—
Pulsing, throbbing, deafening generic tunes,
Repetitive and inconsequential—
Empty laughter, dripping with insincerity,
Pretentious and unkind—
The unrelenting frequency of screams,
Excited or angry, but ever-booming in my head—
And the voices, the endless voices,
Whispers growing louder,
Attacking ears like blood-sucking parasites
‘Til my mind is submerged and sinking,
And I’m drowning in a sea of malevolent disarray.
Then…
Eyes meet my own,
So familiar and chivalrous,
Selectively benevolent,
And somehow fixed on me.
The gaze locks and focus pulls me upward,
Unfolding me from fetal hunch to stand tall.
Slow recognition of the face before me
Evokes an approaching calm from the chaos,
A gradual hush, until pure and merciful…
Silence.
I stare intently in muted wonder
At his flowing sepia aura
Against a backdrop of harsh, over-contrasted color
And realize he stands before me a projected silent film,
Yet somehow tangible,
Appareled in 19th century tailcoat, vest, and pocket watch.
Antique hands outstretch to take my own.
The initial touch,
The ticking static of fingertips against skin
Creeps down my hand and up my arm,
Encompassing every inch of me in warm celluloid tones,
‘Til the hint of something aural grows within,
Replacing silence with the serenade of a theatre organ,
As he smiles with knowing eyes,
And envelopes me with sheltering arms.
We are of our own world,
As we flicker, hand in hand, and walk on…
