Rising

September 10, 2013 at 23:51 6 comments

The poet scribbled in his old yellowed notebook. He wrote of soldiers and sailors, war and whiskey, Indians, highways and mystery trains. He wrote of ghosts, death, demons and angels. Most often though, he wrote of the pale, freckled, red haired Irish queen.

*

He lit his cigarette and stared out the window of his French hotel room, up at the sombre summer sky.  Albinoni’s Adagio wept through the speakers of his old radio. He watched the street, scattered with strange looking people. They scurried and scampered and seemed to be racing against time. He was one of them once. But that was a lifetime ago.

*

2.00AM. He was having a soak in the tub, surrounded in steam. The cigarette in his hand  was the last stick left. There

zwas a bottle of whiskey on the floor. Next to it, his thick notebook, now almost completely filled up, lay opened. He combed back his thick, untamed curls with his foamy fingers and looked down at the familiar words – words he already had etched in the corners of his mind. He spoke the verses out loud and listened as his voice echoed against the moulding walls as if speaking back to him.

 

Hasting Road

Collisions

Leading to unlikely unions

Whose endings are expected

Expiration dates are inevitable

 

Bonds are meaningless now

Reduced to nothing more

Than once strong ties

 

Haunting invasions

Memories

They linger

 

Time takes a pause

And our lives seem lost

Without cause

 

Still we keep moving

Uncertain

Yet blindly confident

Of better days ahead

*

One last mouthful of the hot brown liquid and the glass bottle was emptied. Subdued and lonesome, he drank too much to be sober but not enough to be drunk. Soon all that would change. He had always thought that death was dreadful. But at that moment – hunched in the water, crippled with regret, worry and fear –  he wished it would come sooner. He shut his eyes. They never opened again.

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Amityville 2

6 Comments Add your own

  • 1. Carl D'Agostino  |  September 10, 2013 at 23:54

    I’ve been there. No longer, I am delighted to say.

    Reply
    • 2. rynnasaryonnah  |  September 11, 2013 at 00:02

      I’m guessing you’re talking about the last bit? Glad you’re pass that!

      Reply
  • 3. Alastair  |  September 11, 2013 at 01:28

    Hello you!!!!! Where have you been?

    I could see Jim Morrison as I read that. A very well written piece

    Reply
    • 4. rynnasaryonnah  |  September 11, 2013 at 07:41

      HELLO TO YOU TOO AL!! I’ve been slaving away at work, that’s where I’ve been. :( So much planning to do for the next year… So many events and meetings. I saw that you took a bit of a break yourself, didn’t you? And. Oh my goodness… I haven’t managed to come up with anything new in a LONG time. I’m SO happy you think this was well written. Thought of this while I was on the bus. While listening to Jim Morrison. So I actually pictured him too. :)

      Reply
      • 5. Alastair  |  September 11, 2013 at 13:40

        Work sucks sometimes. I would love to be able to get out and do it sometimes though. Anyhoo, Yes, I was planning to go for a week but ended up going for nearly three weeks. I was in a dark place. Truth be told, I still am, but I try not to let it get to me.

        This piece had it pulling at your heart and a brief image into the mind of Morrison in his last moments.

  • 6. kelihasablog  |  July 19, 2014 at 07:00

    Very well written piece! Sad, but truly evokes the emotions! :D

    Reply

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