Yorkregion.com - PenPixel - Woman of the Night
Woman of the Night
By: Cyle Bartman
Pummeled by the urgency hovering before her face, she cries out into the discomforting night.
Hoping, wishing, willing for something to change she sits flustered without moving a muscle, waiting for a messenger to bring her happiness.
She waits, and waits, and waiting is what has manifested this urgency, the waiting is what is carving the lines in her face.
No such thing has ever existed known as pending happiness, unless it has been seen lurking in the night, hand in hand with fellow fiends flexing their muscle.
Conveniently, she is nocturnal, however, in the light of day she must change.
The key to the lock that confines her state is possessed by change, whom she will never be introduced to. She remains waiting for her knight to return to the castle in full muscle without a smudge of dirt on his face.
Her love is blind in the dark of the night.
Forever this vanished sense will postpone her happiness.
Like a lost companion she longs for this thing called happiness, hoping it will carry the flint to spark a change.
Change only knows of such possessions, and unfortunately he sleeps at night.
Although blessed by renaissance, it is company that he is awaiting.
Happiness alone has interacted with him, the illusion, face to face.
She no longer knows either and no longer has the muscle to claw her way through the obstacles that now out-muscle her will.
Her recent friend hope has lost touch as well. Where is happiness?
She desperately misses its hand that so gently caressed her face.
She lives in a town called Nostalgia where nothing ever changes.
Things are set in stone and appearances fade. She is still waiting.
Her town is cursed by black and populated by one, but it requires many more hands to lift the sun and bid farewell to her night.
Where else to turn but to the open arms extended in the night?
Where mouths never speak of muscle.
Where leisure is spent in waiting.
Where chains make prisoner of the nuisance deemed happiness.
Where not one soul ever seeks to meet the one called Change.
Where hoping, wishing, willing, will never take a knife to thy face.
Eternally she will be waiting, but not for change, without the need for muscle or the memory of happiness.
Her face still. Calm. And her day riding endlessly on her long, lost knight.
Cyle Bartman is a student at Country Day School. He enjoys writing in all forms and is especially interested in poetry and the spoken word.