• Kristiana Roemer

The Refuge

A slim silhouette is moving through blackness sending a muted wail to the waters  below — time stands still. And the silhouette wanders.  All stories, her voices, gently, made speechless  as if they were butterflies flapping out of her throat.  She wouldn’t beg them to sing. She knows, to our ears they won’t.  Slipping across the bridge, being drenched into silence  the sky has finally let it’s thick, black hair down  and begun pinning its crystal pearls and black diamonds.  Wavy dark curls lashing out at the stiff bridge, taunted old bones,  until, finally, they fall, like a god, to the ground.  There, on a fallen Rome’s ancient floorboards, she roams.

With each step slowing; finally, stopping at the edge, a squealing quiver escapes the slim silhouette…  Here, there had been two. They’d been crossing the bright city lights held up high in the air by the old bridge’s might.  It was a whole other night, in another place, date and time,  they once were floating; freed; devious dreams cast behind;  defiant hopes left to rest, and put to sleep on the skyline.

Pouring out her gaze, she sees one million little islands,  built all around the black, subtle waves that are bridges — just like hers.  Each has their own little world breeding.  Pillars weaving and reaching high, creating an arabesque network of giants, an intelligent database system that serves  all the memories that are continuously bleeding; soaking bits of souvenirs time has forgotten to erase while too caught up in the rush of its own — solitary — race.

God-fearing, alert, her silhouette visits this little house that she built in a chamber of her heart. It exists to give a home to songs life’s rhythm prohibits; little stories that have escaped being categorized into minutes nor slipped under the water, turning invisible to the eye. It’s the creatures that weren’t born on worldly planets to survive but find refuge in this home, like a madman’s show of art. As if these stories never ceased but will forever choose to sing for her ghostly silhouette to seek the solace that they bring.


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My reflections are moving in nearer as I stand here in my house of mirrors. Some are chipped, some need dusting. Some are polished to a shine, crystal-clear. Some are obvious, some are deceiving. But