CATS' EYE ( life dance )

CATS' EYE ( life dance )

An emerald on a night-black field shows its fire&;#8230;and is
extinguished. Was it real or only the fairy light of imagination caused
by the strain of looking deeper into things we should not see? But no,
look again. You see! Resting on the edge of my&;#8230;our vision, it
awaits our focus. A clear green beacon screams into the darkness and
sends out a silent cry for our attention. Can we refuse? How to deny
this summons to sit within the court and judge what transpires. Dare we
remain with eyes closed waiting for others to make the call or do we
admit our part.

And now the emerald turns and we see that what was one is two. No
longer are we the centre of this world but just understudies to the
greater part. We retire to the wings and await our minor cue. For every
deed must have its witness in the dark. To be aware of the entire story
is not our cause but only to pass a shattered view of what we
know.

Listen&;#8230;use my ears. It's distant and still faint upon this
heavy air. Can you recognise the sound? Can you say that your heart is
not given flight at the merriment of the notes. It's a
Waltz&;#8230;a Tango&;#8230;the very quickstep of life emboldened
with the sharpness that stretches the fabric of time to make a drum.
And what a drum! A drum that once struck vibrates until the beat is
gone.

Again&;#8230;to my eyes. Do we not see the motion, or is it more a
sense, dear friend? My nerves are laid on skin open to the air.
Stripped of protection they quiver with every breath. Plucked by the
bows of an unseen orchestra they judder to a pitch that matches the
very movement of the air. It's moving quickly but look yonder, grey
upon that deeper black, a shadow moves upon a shadow and into a heavier
shade is gone&;#8230;but no. Beating with swords it slashes upon my
open nerves. A pulse. The pounding of another heart remains. Like a
wind-blown rain pattering on my face I feel that strumming heart.

And now comes taste. I search the sweetened air and find myself afraid.
I smell the palpitations of my pungent skin and yearn for hope. If only
I could break these stagnant motes and echo a sound about this dark
constricted room. Can we do nothing? Can we only see and not prevent
this play upon that hateful stage? I sense your eyes with mine and we
are trapped in what must be, stood as silent ghosts, within this room
that carved from ice is formed around us?

From darkness into killing light a bright furry form now jives.
Dancing, life is joy, when fear is far away. I, impotent, cannot
scream. Lightning feet of gay abandoned summers' dream skitter into
view and pirouette their hopes.

We have arms that do not stretch to whisk away this child, this baby
that we love. What words describe this motion that is our like, our
being? Can we not break the barriers of this page and alter the words
we do not like to make a different world, a globe that shimmers
gold?

An emerald starts to burn.

In feline grace a death is still a loss however fluid the motion seems.
Those supple limbs created with our love on many a summers eve, now
move, with a purpose mean. Growls suppressed upon our knees now stilled
in that silent chest. The diamond knives unsheathed cannot withdraw
until the final act is done. While we in silent horror bleed and
question what we create with the love we pass around. I think of you,
unhappy reader, as I feel you leave and carry away your support.

Without the red would an emerald seem so green?