The Great Hall

By Brianna Austin

Prose of love and loss like angel’s song and tiger’s fury, convey gentler days and a quest for living: it breathes before me. Sometimes in awe, I’ve stood witness to gentle inspiration evolve into glory on the run. And, if this be the choice of the undecided, then forsaken me, for I too sought the prize. Lives were revealed in grand and subtle ways. Brought forth on the wings of hope – and love - love is always present. Without it fear is all that exists and what purpose could that serve? Except, of course, to keep love and courage honest and true.

And love, a most peculiar thing. It echoes through the hallways, floating on the tongues of devils yet nurtured in the womb of sanity. It is everywhere, yet nowhere. It’s in everything, and yet nothing at all -- except the vapor of an idea that ran through me once, that calls from time to time. As for me, I’m neither sinner nor saint. I’m the observer watching the story unfold in the eyes of the innocent. Providing commentary, a memento that we were once here, in this great hall. And of those that came before, I cannot say.
No, I speak of the now, the uncertainty of such things that draws me in, compelling me to participate, whether I choose to or not. Because life waits not. And we the mighty, victorious where we stand, are alone, afraid, posing for the camera. We attempt, in our own arrogance, to orchestrate a concert of wild things while we miss the view. Still, change comes and chaos prevails in its perfect way, as it always has.

So, in the shadow of life we are left to recite prose of love and loss that fill our hearts, and enshrine our egos. Lambs are sacrificed to the creatures of the dark, and we, the mighty, still unable to understand its purpose, are nevertheless enriched by its process. Flowers continue to grow.

Copyright 2004 Brie Austin

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