A Story Begins, A Story Ends

A Story Begins, A Story Ends

 

Every moment, a story begins and a story ends.  A thought falls to the page and another waits to be released.  The pen is lifted and the pen falls again.  A deep breath is drawn in.  A reflective exhale is sent out.  A pigeon lands on the bottom stair of the Duomo, takes a few bobbleheaded steps, then flutters along on his way.  A conversation comes buzzing towards me only to quickly dissipate back into the hum of the night.

A story begins and a story ends.

A drunken man hobbles in front of me and looks straight through my eyes to the wall behind my head. Words are mumbled and he picks up my empty beer bottle and walks away.  A French family stopped by my seat, curious, to read a poem I've written:

Seated on the marble steps,
amongst the bustle, watchful eyes.
The lights and shadows form the dream,
the ancient stones sing at night.
Pretty girls with pretty strides,

spark the flame of sweet desire.
A cool gelato drips down a cone,
to fall and soon dissolve, unknown.
A clockbell rings and strikes the time,
yet nothing changes, nothing sighs.

We're all like birds upon these steps,
perched on an architectural masterpiece,
here to feast on the fruits of our eyes,
plucked one by one from the tree of life,
continually, until the dream realized.

And here we'll sit on marble stone,
never to digest it all.
But that's ok,
that's alright.
On and on sweet endless night.

Off into the night they go.  Blue lights flash in the distance and sing their blue light song, roaring up the street in a crescendo, soon fading beyond the stretch of my ears.  A red ant finds himself walking in circles on the top of my shoe.  Meanwhile, a cloud takes the shape of a dolphin in the sea.

A story begins and a story ends.

I turn back to the page and a bottle crashes in the street.  A gypsy in green pants and a shirt that reads 'YES' makes three laborious movements up the small flight of stairs.  At the summit he releases a howling primal scream.  I can feel the plaza shiver and pause for a moment -- then resume.  The gypsy wanders around the corner of the Duomo.  A small group of people disperses from the steps.  And the drunken man returns.  He meanders up to a couple of chatting fellows and speaks like a washing machine.  Off he goes again.  The night grows heavy on the plaza.  Even the pigeons are asleep in their beds.  I put down my pen and stand up to venture back.  Tired eyes seek time to rest.

A story begins and a story ends.

 
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