Soldier's Spirit

From dusk to twilight and throughout night and day there's a hush deep down here in the old wine cellar. I don't see what appears now, for time has no meaning, like me it dwindles unnoticed.

Yellow pages torn from an old diary that tells my story lies motionless, as my spirit begins to once more unravel along the maze of dark winding tunnels that lead to the catacombs of my tomb. I'd managed to rip some sheets out myself hoping that someone would come down, but as yet nobody cares to notice.

The old claret still situated in dusty long forgotten barrels like me has matured. Cobwebs cling in the dust and filth neglected after the inhabitants vacated.

Few enter the complexity of passages, void of light for fear of getting lost...except for those ghost hunters that like to show their bravery. Otherwise the old discarded candles that produce a thick mass of lingering wax, are the only witness to my isolation as I spirit my way throughout this drafty, winding labyrinth to which I've claimed as my own, for this is my solitude without voice, only memory conveys constantly, even long before my death, babbling on like those remembered childhood adventures of playing in brooks with pals, annihilating any loneliness I might feel from time to time...yet again I don't perceive atmosphere or texture in my vacuum.

I who am energy can be as reckless as I want, materializing then disappearing, my dazzling orb expanding if I so choose, leaving me exhausted, but liberated too.

Old wind driven hay scatters on the cellar floor, blown in through cracks from local stables, sometimes I hear echoes of hooves that breaks this silence, reminding me of riding into war, at least that's what it sounds like to me. Occasionally noise of distant gun fire rips across the earth, but maybe in my isolation it's just the sound of past memories.

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