Taking the Stairs

It is our seance. No others are needed for the ceremony. Voodoo. Witchcraft. Magic. A lifeless body is once again alive, called back from the stark eternity. Sweet incantations have revived me. Energy exchanged, rendering me spellbound.

Did I ever tell you I thought I was dead? I was dead, anyway. My soul departed, my body hollow, my heart empty. How easily we forget. How easily I forgot--how to love, how to feel, how to live. How quickly we remember in perfect time. Perfectly. All is perfect. Perfect. What does it mean to be perfect? Perfection is a state most easily attained by none. It does not exist, yet there is the essence. Its essence is now. In the present. Presents. Presence.

You knew the right song to play, calling me as the charmer to the serpent. Serpentine. Serene. Entranced in notes cloaked as words, the song you play awakens my spirit. What once lay dormant now thrives again, a dance to match your song. Swept up by the Vertigo, my soul is resurrected.

The spell cast was constructed with eloquence, artistry, mastery of the craft. A warlock superior in mastering the powers of the universe, your spoken words, your focused intent was enough to shake the cosmos. Falling. Fallen. Fell under the spell.

A life without passion is no life. An existence void of love is none at all. I was once of the walking dead. Wings outstretched, armed with words as weapons I willingly surrender my hear to be pierced. Show me how to mend, my feathers bear the marks of war--tattered and sullied. I want new ones. I want to fly with you, wherever, whenever, no matter the course. No matter the distance; do not worry, I will keep up. This time, I will not fall.