The Cave of Sweet Oblivion

Petr Kratochvil

The Cave of Sweet Oblivion  

I lived in a cave wrapped regal in a velvet cape

peeking through a haze of love-light glowing.   

A few threw labels as rotten tomatoes splatting 

“Deranged” they might call out – “Ridiculous”  

they sneered my belief in light, love and peace –

But, these were but a few. Easily, dismissed nay-
sayers who would have me in chains bound by 
behavior, age and stage, constrained by convention.

Unknown to me, their drive to sustain, to feed, to 
enflame the anger at my perceived rebellion raged. 
They ran, wrote, raced. Dressed in damning despair, 
on tip-toes did they traipse sipping coffee, clinking 
glasses of sweet wine served with tidbits of soured 
 charges – As, I lived happily on, in my sweet cave 
of oblivion, wrapped in my cape – breathing easy 
in the sweet air of certain love–love already invisibly

bleeding oxygen. Peeking, now and then, through a

haze of glowing light – breathing deep and calm,

believing myself invincibly loved I ignored the odd 
strain of cacophonic voices drifting from the others …  

Until one misty day a child crept to the mouth of my

feather-bedded den and whispered that I wake and see –

See, that as I slept they had deboned the legs on which

I had always stood – Tall and strong, safe and invincible. 

I smiled sweetly at the child, unbelieving, not attempting

to rise. As proof, she knelt in all sweet innocence before me,  

and in her hand held a small long mirror. And, I looked.

In the soft golden glow I could see the filet of me – as she

with soft sad eyes retreated back to the others. A chill began

to insinuate itself through the filigreed crevices of my cave 

crushing the delicate pretty designs into jagged cracks. 

A cold hard wind blew and away flew the haze. In that glare 

of awakened light – I found – Myself. – Impotent, 
Unable to exchange nor feign my boundless belief in love 

for this new normal of shattered legs. Crippled, I lay alone 

listening to the howl of the wind as in the distance familiar 

voices cackled in cruel laughter – and I in a tumbled whirl 

of time found enough strength in trembling fingers to pull 

my cape around shoulders shaking in the winds of isolated 

indifference.
Waiting. 

The Sunday Whirl