From: IK00053@MAINE.MAINE.EDU (The Judean Peoples' Front)
Newsgroups: alt.callahans
Subject: In Memoriam
Date: 30 Sep 92 04:55:05 GMT
Organization: University of Maine System

Belgarath watches the solemn activity of the bar and quietyly pulls
out a rolled up parchment.  He spreads it out on the table in front
of him, and producing an ink well and quill, he begins to write.  In
perhaps fifteen minutes he stops, puts the quill down and looks the
writing over.  Slowly moving to a nearby soapbox, he stands upon it
and waits silently for any commotions to die down.  He begins to
read.

"Destiny's Lament

I heard the words spoken once, maybe more
     I am smoke.
Smoke floats up from the fire of dreams,
But no flames burned in my empty breast that night.
No dancing lights twinkled in a starlight eye.
No songs danced from a glib tongue,
     just my own empty whispers full of deceit.

Beyond my feet stood a window with one lonely, broken square.
     I am beauty.
Small crisscrossing lines of the scene lay completely hidden,
Only the parts beyond the maddeningly clear panes were seen.
My body slid upright, reaching forth, security seeping away,
Trying to bend the light outside to my own frail designs.
     The unbending shards paid no heed.

My fist slowly twisted over into a flat open palm.
     I am weakness.
My feet found the floor and paced a creaking board.
The broken window lay gossamer and obscene; inviting.
And yet seemingly out of reach, the body held taut.
Directions mean nothing to a mind clouded with indecision.
     A struggle of wills leaves no winner.

Forced beyond reason to turn to the light, I did.
     I am blindness.
The stomach knots and spasms.  One hand clutches at air.
The free hand (freedom is so fleeting) rends my clothes.
Tearing, rending, stretching gaping holes in the fabric.
A shadow blows through the glass.  Lightning thunders.
     My gaze is fixed on the black horizon.

But do the wriggling toes of my inner self escape the blanket?
     I am fiction.
Is the prone form clotted to the sheets my own?
Am I standing awake in reality or is it sleeping over me?
Is it my mind or my fancy which stands before the hollow glass?
Do I feel myself as I really am or as I really was?
     Rationality is twisting into a funnel.

There is no time to think deeply on it; to think at all.
     I am slavery.
Marionette strings jerk my hands to he window.
One of them thrusts through, shattering a flawless pane.
The other presses tightly to it, quivering, aborted.
The gentle breeze of reason swirld around the open palm.
     Rationality is trapped beyond the glass.

The puppetmaster yanks with and irritated insistence.
     I am helplessness.
My entire body is ripped through the sheltering window.
So I choke, enfolded in its jagged, icy comfort.
Trickles of blood escape from numerous open wounds,
The subtle wind of my own indecision sweeps over me,
     But it is brief and conviction is victorious.

No longer stuggling with thoughts, the body withdraws.
     I am certainty.
The sinew of my will is taught and strangely vital.
Standing again inside, the glass in my flesh unnoticed,
I watch clouds close over the sky and rain begin to fall.
Splattering drops blow in, covering my cheeks like tears.
     I turn away from the window and brush away the rain.

But all indecision is not shut out.  Conflicting wills argue.
     I am belligerence.
Love is nothing--It is the hope that sets you free.
Hate is nothing--It is the power that vents your problems.
Pain is nothing--It is the feeling that tells you you are alive.
Life is nothing--You're a fool.  Life is all there is.
     The simple solution is irresistable.

My upturned head faces the window again, sunlit and dry.
     I am nothing.
Reason clutches feebly at my mind one last time,
But my heart is far too strong now, even knowing it is wrong.
Lies and truth no longer have any distincton.  All is one.
I fall through the window again, this one suddenly real.
     I was once blood, now I am smoke."

--J. R. Woodman
  September 29, 1992

For Liz, the Inspiration, and Regan, the Memory.
Newsgroups: alt.callahans