Tuesday, 24 January 2012

Handstands in the Graveyard.

Fragments of a dream, stitching together what was a black night if not for the dim glow of cigarettes burning like fireflies. A soundtrack of the slight splatter of morning rain as we took steps down the garden, cold mud seeping into our shoes. I begged for guidance with my outstretched hand, nobody claimed it but the night. Lost and scared, I followed the wolves as they explored past the trees, feeling too young to be out that late, that far, with those people.  We walked the earth until the thick treetops blocked out the stars, the navy blue canvas now hidden with a heavy black cloth. I stood frozen as they did cartwheels across the inky landscape, light laughter somewhat tainted with cruelty. Bottles clinking against marble teeth and paper crowns upon curly ginger hair, they were the kings and queens of the night and my honour was suddenly greater than fear.  I watched their performance like a projection onto white walls, wishing I could dive in. My socks were muddy, my skin was cold, but these people did not see me, I was not even there.