Palm Sunday

I lately watched your video, a Palm Sunday morning show of you and your wife.

Me, your mistress, now ashes of passionate fires, forbidden fires.

Intention of sin in your ideology.

And then this scene of an innoscent couple, the ones who try to pretent what they aren't.

 

You don't smile. It takes you a lot of effort to smile.

You start explaining traditions, easter stuff. She interrupts you, full of her ego, full of her need for attention.

Nobody would notice because everybody believes.

 

But behind the shiny fassade of traditions and jokes, trying to solace the "stay at home" church family, lies a mysterious world of these two completely different people.

 

You were absent, you drifted away often enough, searched the camera again, searched the lines on your script to get back. While you were starring in corners, distracted.

 

Far away, not in this room.

 

From time to time I catch the fire in your eyes, the wild celtic flames, your heritage around these soft family man lines.

 

You are distracted.

I will never forget as I entered this building and your eyes followed me all the time.

You were so distracted that you couldn't do your job anymore.

Far away, I saw you from the bench, felt your fires already, burning me.

I pushed this all away but felt pulled already.

This is where it all began.

 

And now I am watching you, trying to hide your absence, trying to push thoughts of me and my body away. All the details you still keep on your mind, all the wild thoughts you try to hide. The pull is still there.

 

Your mind is wandering while you keep going to talk about palm strokes and colouring eggs.

Sinking into wilderness, behind hetches and trees. Back to the forest in thoughts, where your mind feels restless and hungry again, still mixed with disbelief and the feeling of sin.

 

It's the darkness I've caused in you, an inner lion in the forest, where he can let it all out. To shake the years of "playing the good one" off.

 

Back to the traditions in your video. The egg as fertility symbol, stolen from the pagans, still alive in your tradition. Our passion was the fertility of empty old souls. Fusion of the same ancient power, seperated in two different lives.

 

In the end you smile.

Your face is more relaxed as you announce special guests for the upcoming services.

I know you love this job.

 

copyright by Magical whispers/I. Normann, 06/04/2020

 

 

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