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Indigo Dawn

 

Indigo Dawn

The Sorrows of this Day

This is not meant to be an inquiry into a past that has by now become history. Neither is it a study, there is no news here, only grief and hope. Rather it is a lament, a purposely cathartic attempt to grieve publicly and celebrate the life of one of our brightest and best. It will be her name written again in the Book of the Living.

Natalie Holloway, unknown, sadly came to fame amidst infamy. This is the cause of my hot tears and passionate words. How did I arrive at this destination upon which my heart has set and my tears arisen. All that we know of her is that she suffered greatly and undeservedly. Her life devoured by jackals even as she breathed. Even that, now, may not have been the end of her horror. The soul-eater in whose paws lay her future revealed that an honest task, one of common compassion, was one for which he had no taste. Not even the emotion one might feel for a beached whale or the violent end of a deer by the side of the road lived in his breast at the moment of her greatest need.

No, the beasts that attended her funeral first exalted their perverse and twisted manhood. But theirs is manhood devoid of all that it means to be a Man. So I shall speak of them as animals all the while hoping not to demean those dear creatures by such use of the term for even they grieve such happenings in their own world.

No, these savages behaved as if they were the uncreated, godlike in their own minds.  ‘things’ from outside the known universe, who on coming together formed a black-hole so strong it still yet binds them together in a ghoulish silence. They are an inhuman cabal who shall not escape their marks. For their crime still lives.

Still smiling in her photographs, she warns us that the night still holds the hunter, the predator, the evil one disguised as one of us. She waves, beckoning, reminding us of our debts topresent and future generations. Somehow, the man-child within me is heart-broken for this child of light who discovered a place and a time in OUR world where no love lived.

She on the other hand should be a Light among us. In a photograph, with a wave she bids us not forget her, a vision of Hope in our continued strivings toward the True. In her clear eyes is revealed a desire that as persons indebted to one another that justice might truly become love? For justice is not something you get, it is something you give. 

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Summer's Child

                                     Summer's Child 

In the year that Jessica Lunsford died, something died within me. I must ask your forgiveness for presenting some ideas "at her expense" and perhaps I seem a Philistine about the whole affair. This is not my intention. It is rather my desire to pay tribute to her and those we may name silently in our hearts who have and will suffer the vile, foul, deviant touch of a monster.

I have three girls, now grown, and four beautiful, outgoing granddaughters. I have three handsome grandsons. I can only relate to the agony of Jessica's father, in all its forms. by a knot in my stomach and chains on my heart. I don't dwell on the fear I feel for my own during "amber alerts".

The solstice is passed, we spin and hurtle toward another equinox. Along with the stars other, more sinister constellations align. That is, I mean to say, predator seeks prey. This alignment I call "Summer's Child". 

It's stars are the brightest and most beautiful in the heavens. Their brilliance is such that they dazzle our eyes and hearts even in the most powerful light of the summer sun. In them is captured the essence of our heritage and the beauty and devilishness of their own contribution to another iteration. But now they only shine.

But as it happens constellations are not merely chains of diamonds in the sky. They glitter in a sea of blackness. This blackness is a darkness we rarely contemplate because of the awe in which we hold the stars. but the darkness, in the midst of daylight comes also to visit.

Suddenly, though only one star has been snatched from it's place, we feel the darkness at our own throats as the constellation falls from the sky and the scales enclose our eyes.

This piece has been in the "works" since Jessica Lunsford's story was told. Each day my heart longed to hear, "She's found". But as the sun slowed in its path and the nights became eternal she was swallowed in the blackness that had once revealed her glory.

Two things continue claw at my heart: first, the vision of a trashbag closing over my head, the impression being lowered into the earth, my chest burning as it struggles with life, the dying of my voice in the silence.

The second is more sinister. Having worked with pedophiles I know that the many facets of the maryrdom of a child will provide Mr. Cooey with a lifetime of secret joys. He will relive his favorite moments again and again, a little guilt, no remorse.This sickens and infuriates me. He has earned a much less friendly death than the one shining star in his own dark formation.

This is dedicated to all born under this troubled sign.




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