[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

"Cyrano Reborn"

Using methods of spinning words and syllables into liquid silk
I spend countless hours writing unending declarations of love
Is but nothing to come of this?
If I were a man of revenge, I would confess the deepest secret of my soul
I would risk the world turning on it’s axis, and everything becoming awry
To tell you that these words are not hys, but in fact mine.
Ahh but to risk the recoil of such actions, such thoughts.
I do not dare to render myself wounded with the fall out of such.
So here I sit, body bent over the page creating images of scenic beauty in soliloquy.

And as I watch from darkened shadow
I watch this charlatan, this jester, play the part of King to a willing and blinded audience.

But if given the opportunity
Would I step from the shadows embrace?
Would I take your hand and lead you off to dance?
Would I be able to serenade you with the music of my words?
Could I dare steal you away, you the belle of the ball?

I answer my own question.
My own musing as I make my way out to stand under the bright scrutiny of the moonlight.
The sounds of muted whispers, the rasp of silken skirts float on the wind from inside to me.
And I damn myself for my cowardice.
If I had half the nerve I shall dash out my own heart lest it betray me again.
I should retreat forever from the cruelty of this world into permanent hermitage.
Yet, transfixed, I remain riveted to this spot, a masochist for the maker of my own demise.

If only I could air the desire
If only I could adore her, my lady in the open.
And not be confined to the sidelines.

I lift my head and gaze at the stars
Damning the gods for their tormenting games
Since when had it become sport to leave the hearts of the faithful broken?
Since when had it become commonplace to fall prey to the sting of loves nine lashes?

Oh but to embrace the sanctuary, the reverie of fantasy.
There could I hold her
There could I profess that in fact it is I who love her
That the words of devotion hy speaks are truly mine.

And as I draw my jacket tighter against the chill from within
I damn the fire of my Cajun blood, and the passion it births.
If only I had taken the path of the prophet rather than the poet.
I could then be the restless walker, and not have to linger here slave to my own passions.

And yet I wonder
Perhaps one day could the balance be shifted?
Could the fates decide in my favour?
Could my luck possibly change?
And if that day should come about would I know it in it’s coming?
Would I know the time, would I know the date?

And with the sound of a lonely bird’s cry.
The haunting lilt of the loon;
I am struck with the mark of genius
The lightning strike of epiphany
That I will never stop my yearning for her.

And with heart pounding like rain on tin
I turn and make my stand.

And with the bravado of beloved Cyrano
I step onto the battlefield.

As I take her into my arms
And my love for her profess.

I know that if all else
I may have lost the war.
But the battle has just begun