Like a nasty rumor too good to keep to ones self from mouth to ear it spread like a virus infecting each person it came into contact with.
Lock up your children,their coming to town. Their to camp on the outskirts of town, down by the river, they'll be. Keep your valuables close at hand,lock your doors, bar your windows, their coming to town. Down by the river, they'll be.
The virus spread.
My heart skipped a beat, maybe two when it came my time to be infected and I heard "they" were coming to town and "they" were to camp on the outskirts of town. Down by the river, I heard, they'll be. I wasn't afraid of losing a child, I wasn't afraid of being robbed in the dead of night, something far greater caused the hairs on my neck to stand up, and it was this something far greater that I was afraid of. The hands of the clock took their time ticking off the minutes, I waited. I wish I could say patiently I waited, but it was agonizingly painful, father waiting on his firstborn painful. But I waited, I had to know.
Black as a witches cauldron was the night, no moon, no stars, the darkest night I had ever seen as I made my way to the outskirts of town, down to the river, where they were supposed to be. Now too small an area, my heart pounded the walls of my chest in anticipation, scared to find out, scared not to find out. I had to know and this was my chance, perhaps, my only chance. I would have brought someone with me,if it had been possible but this was something I had to do alone. The only light of the camp flickered in the night keeping the arms of darkness at bay as shadows, blackened silhouettes, danced to the music. A stranger stepped from the darkness into the light of the camp, the music, the dance stopped, I stood there, I waited. Without a word, the oldest, not without pain, stood and walked toward me. The music, the dance began again as her gnarled twisted fingers took mine and led me away.
I have looked into the Gypsy woman's crystal ball and there was nothing. I thought there would have been more. I had prayed with all there was inside for more, but once the swirling smoke cleared there was nothing but a glass ball sitting on a table.
Acceptance can be such an evil word . . . she whispers.
Not fully open, not completely closed, always peering out into the world from within. A life, slightly ajar. A dream just out of reach.
Acceptance can be such an evil word. . .she whispers.
Dear Diary, With pen in hand, I stare at the blank page, the empty lines, but there is nothing but darkness. Hidden in the void the words are there, they hunger for release, for freedom, but they cannot find their way out. The promise of a new life, a chance to live, tempts them from the light shining from underneath the door. Hostages held, bound, tied, the words struggle to come together. They know in numbers there is strength, in numbers words become thoughts, in numbers words are stronger than the sticks glued together to form the door that holds them captive. In numbers words become sentences, the lines no longer blank. In numbers words becomes ideas . . . dear diary, can you keep a secret?