A New Song

She was talking, addressing me, just words of course, to shoot the breeze, to place a cover on that ever-present gap, the sound of silence, so common when two strangers speak, pretending to be fine, relaxed and in control. There'd been a silly past, of never-ending hurts each time a stalk, a leaf of poison ivy, rubbed in well, and so it would not end the darts would really fly, the battle escalate to be a public nuisance on its own, flaunting its nasty grin and innuendo from within. Incongruous it was, I see attraction, once bizarre may hang around our lives and titillate the idle mind. The day it rained he looked, to gather words, bland and inept; a man must justify his deeds, and point his finger at the weeds. Alas 'twas not to be, he found not what his stategy had sought but sounds of soft intrigue, like violins from Klingenthal where catacombs deep in the ground send back their echo to the folks above. And he, a connoisseur, sat, stunned, while still denying what could be in some dimension of his life a truth, reality perhaps could overcome that which was staring with much glee into his face; he swallowed hard and then recalled an ancient pledge, one must be open and speak nothing but the truth, as it presents itself, it needs a bit of courage and he mustered it at once. There was a treasure for his eyes, and as he read the many lines, it soothed his ears as real poetry passed to his mind. A trance had drifted through his head like mist, he felt a hand and then his cheeks were kissed. Of course, a man can be expected to misread though all her prose was like a lovely sing-along. And sober hindsight says the words were true indeed, and on occasion they can whisper a new song.