A Hidden Feast

The twilight hangs over the world, a gossamer web of mysterious delights. The tall fur and pine stand proud, sentinels of an ancient pace. A well worn path, thick with fallen needles, leads the way to a forgotten hold. It is a broken soul who wanders that deep way, who's heart has become completely lost. Perhaps it takes a minute, maybe years, to travel that forest path. Time does not change here, darkness never takes full hold.

The scent of the evergreen prickles the dead senses, a sign of strange, old life that can't be ignored. The moment of complete lostness comes, and the life which held up suddenly gives way, crumpling to the ground with nothing left to hold.

Hidden within deep shadows a warm circle of light, nothing more than a pinprick, catches the weary eye. Perhaps it is only found when all else is lost, when there is simply nothing left to give. A light at the end, if you will.

Maybe years later, the world opens, the great evergreens shift and lighten until it is birch and oak, poplar and hawthorn. The world of twilight melts away, to find a world set in gold, silence and warmth.

The long, black iron table has nothing atop it, save three tall, fat candles. All of which have been burning for such a long time the wax has pooled along their chubby stems and rivulets have hardened and beads formed. The candles never go out, the wax just... continues to drip and pool.

A delicate ring of woven willow branches contains the hot wax. Violet, hyacinth and forsythia have been carefully places in a wild tangle, the new greenery of Bishop Bush woven among them.

In perfect solitude, the evening sun gilds the world in gold, with such nurturing warmth as to fill the very bones of the earth with life. A child's laughter fills the glade and joy bubbles through the air. A place of madness and delight, untouched by corrupted souls.

The birds do not sing in this fathomless place, nor do creatures of the wood tread upon it's ground. No Faerie comes to this hidden glenn. Long has the feast been known, long has the table sat, untouched. The Candles continue to burn, their wicks are never trimmed, a match never lit.

The weary soul does not step through, caught on the edge of bruised light and golden life. Rushing footsteps sound behind, fear widens eyes, mirth echoes around. The world burns, the world bleeds, but nothing stirs, nothing changes. Caught in a place of madness and delight, the Faerie ring encloses, capturing the heart of all who wander to close.

Frantic hope, frantic joy. The laughter bubbles all around, the empty face whirling, spinning, spinning, spinning. To find the sound would be to find joy again. To find the smile of that child, would be to find love again. Could there be such a thing? A way back through. The dizzying hold of hope causes feet to stumble.

Step after step, spin after spin and the table lay before the broken body, the shattered mind. How does life so fully take all away? Is there a way to rediscover joy? Not in this deep place. No hidden feast can hold the joy of life. The joy of life is within the weary heart, the broken spirit, for perhaps they are the only ones who can grow into anything new, or beautiful.

Though sun brings all to view, still those tiny flames light the darkness of shadows unseen. They burn, they blaze with intensity and hold the secret of all life itself.

Or, perhaps they hold the key to insanity.

But has there ever been a difference?