No color or chroma reaches my night-dead eye.  The sun sets over the ruined cathedral.  And there is me, awake again, hanging in the middle, with the ghosts of the past on one side and the shadows of the future on the other, dangling between history and destiny, on this arch of time.

The hollow, no longer hallow, walls stretch above me, the marble has been stripped away, revealing broken brick and rubble.

Entering through my secret door and taste the evening, taste her, taste the world, the world of the everlasting Now.

I walk through the cathedral, once the place of long forgotten saints and archbishops, of king and peasant long turned to dust.  I can still see their faces on the crumbling walls.

How the mighty have fallen, the holy rotted. 

I follow the scent, the only thing that I can smell.  The scent is her, of lace and spice.

The rubble was long ago cleaned, the place given over to wild romanticism.  She would consider me romantic.  How ironic.

They told her.  They warned.  Do not stray past the setting of the sun.  But aren’t the musty old ruins delightful?  So full of mystery and delight.  And at night?  When they are seen in ivory and ebony, the skeleton of the massive building now a sonata of shadows?

The thought thrills her to her deepest roots, her most private places.

I can sense her and know she can sense me.  She is not afraid.

Continue reading at Trent’s World