experiment 9

You are a curtain. Scarlet and hanging, dirty and beautiful. A curtain has no remorse. A curtain, a shield, my aegis, my dream. A curtain, my killer, my loss, my lacking, my life.

There's three terra cotta men that stand guard on the frontdoor step. There is one too many. Two have to stand to the left while only one stands to the right. These guards of mine are always out of place; their numbers would have it no other way. You carry no weapons.

You are a terrible guard. You stand naked in the rain and afterwards, the dust clings to you. You are the third guard, the lost guard, the guard without place, mission, or agency. It is something oh so terrible to be the third. Your brothers stand in perfect harmony with their place, and you must wander; the places are taken. The stations are filled.

You have carved a place for yourself, temporary, unrecognized by your peers. You wander only so much to stand exactly, right there exactly, where you never left. You stare listlessly and always to the right. You're a terrible guard, a worthless sentinel, a timeless staring eye. You watch forever and see nothing. Nothing but a curtain, descending from the sky to obscure, to cover, to fold over and upon. Scarlet and hanging from vaulted skies. A curtain like any other, its purpose the same.

What wonderous and amazing things happen beyond your veil, you can only dream. And dream you do, though dreams are deadly for a guard of serious merit and stature. No, you're barely a guard at all. You stare and dream of scarlet fabric. Of textiles unsung, of threads weaving themselves into more perfect selves. Into communities of perfection.

You care nothing for your brother beside you.

You greet the day and say,
"We'll live forever,
and move together,
like stars in the sky.

We'll sing together,
and dance forever,
like flames licking licking licking."

Your brothers are guards. They hate you. You sing and they do not. They do not notice the curtain. The curtain is only yours.