The Final Dance

Touch, touch, touch. Tickle, tickle, tickle. I think about you as a random thought. I see you in pictures that pass by my mind, in my book of memories that haven't faded away through age or time. I'm waiting to have enough strength. I put almost everything and anything in the way of facing you head on. Why is it that I just can't conquer you?

It's a mere memory and moments in time long gone. I haven't head a nightmare in such a long time. I suppose I may be thinking that all of the scattered thoughts and moments may surface into my dream world. But I don't yet sense that this is what stops me. It's more of a complete unwillingness to even look in your direction.

Is this my Achilles heal?

I am glad of the items in life that take up my time. Whether work or family, it filters through my thinking and absorbs any trace of you in my current todays. Can I handle writing you all down? Am I ready to face the bewitching hour? Every time I think of you, I am instantly around 14 years-old.

I'm angry at you. I wear this on my face. Not a moment in your presence denies the emotion that wells to the surface spewing over succinctly when there is no one else around. You dismiss me as nothing. You make me ill. I wish you had never been created. And how awful is that since you are a child of God.

In His eyes you are His beloved. To me, you are a thug and a punk and a human who uses his instruments of strength and location to conquer others. You are a vile creature. I so want to call you out before the world and announce your real intentions. I want the world to flog you with contempt and glares of indignation. Please stand still long enough so society can swat you down like a fly. It brings a wry smile to my lips just thinking of this.

I will have my time with you. Whether in my thoughts, in my words I pen, you will not escape your actions. And, in truth you will face your accuser. You and I will have one final sparring match before the blow to wipe you from existence. And I shall dine, satisfied and full, without you as part of any future, present or past. It will be a glorious day of satisfaction.