lions and lambs

i.
they are in the dark no-man's-land of heartache.
homage to the ghosts of our pasts is paid here.
the dark is comforting because it is always there,
and it never leaves.
she keeps her earbuds in so she cannot hear herself cry.
love lost - it is a fear of falling.
not so much lost as never gained.
goodnight,
goodnight,
it is not a good night.
perhaps it is day but when you never open your eyes,
you never know.
maybe they are above the earth
and maybe they are below
or out to the side,
or perhaps this is what earth truly is 
and the rest is a lie.
it is a time caught between two rivers' eddies, 
neither moving,
neither moved,
thus stuck until one gives way.
lost beyond all reason,
and hopelessly echoing the silence of the dead.

ii.
he has been there the whole time watching her cry,
before she sank
and he sank with her,
before the weight on her back caught up to her
when she stopped running 
and turned around.
in the dark she cannot see
but to him,
she glows.
an angel is a good thing, yes,
but a weeping angel is an omen of melancholy,
and what is down can always be brought up.
wings drenched in tears glitter like the dew.
every boy wants to be a hero,
but he is so silent,
and soft.
he has been here in the dark a million times over,
lost puppy following angels to their doom,
where the sun doesn't shine
and lost things stay lost
and things that are found 
find that they would rather not be found.
enter, romeo.
enter, juliet.
into the den of the lions where rich men weep
and poor men find nary an ounce of sleep
for perhaps fat man and little boy shook the earth,
but love lost (or never gained) put it there,
and shall take it away.
and isn't it better to have companionship in victimhood
than loneliness in fortitude?

iii.
so he keeps watch beneath a starless sky.
so he sits and waits for her to realise.
with all the lonely people in the world,
it's a wonder they haven't yet found each other.
she does not sleep.
she does not weep.
she does not look above her and wish aloud for a safe place.
when the batteries run out of her mp3,
she leaves the buds in
and does not speak to him.
perhaps she doesn't know he is there.
perhaps she wishes he weren't.
before they came here,
it was day after day on a park bench,
the same thing,
earbuds in,
world tuned out,
like she's been lonely for so long she doesn't know how to...
not be.
beyond the hedges lie the lions sleeping.
without a guide she will walk past the hedges
and lie among the lions
and they will wake to find prey amongst them
and feast, and hunger still.
lions hold no sympathy for lost little lambs.
the lions are the ledge of a thirteen-story building,
(so much bad luck what's a little more),
a bridge over troubled waters,
where the forgotten can sleep
and the pavement rises up to meet the living
and bring them to a place of no return.
you cannot make it past the lions alone.
her hands are small and cold from the dark pressing down on them,
and he takes them both and pulls her off the ground.
she does not resist
but floats along like a ghost,
and as they come to the hedge,
he peeks over to where the lions sleep and guard their young.
lions hold no sympathy for lost little lambs.
the gate in the hedge is well-oiled and silent,
though his footsteps on the frozen ground seem like gunshots in the stillness.
the lions do not raise their heads.
beyond the hedge the living come back to life,
even as they stare death in its sleeping eyes,
even as the pavement calls out to them,
and a thing that can be done only once is in the making,
for a moment they are alive but then it's too late.
two hearts on a ledge might have the sense enough to step back to safety.
thus the lambs walk amongst the sleeping lions,
and they sleep on,
warm breath on the sheep's ankles,
fur hot even in the coldness.
and the lambs lie with them,
and are not afraid.
and in the morning they will wake to find
that the lions were lambs all along,
and shall welcome them with open arms.