Silencing Archimedes--in prose

I look up from closing the cover on a dusty book, listening for the sound of stirring wings. I hear silence instead. Even my own breath is too shallow to make a sound. My finger makes a comet's tail in the distinct gray film that coats the table. It is the only mark I will leave here, and like every comet's tail, it will fade. 

Books sit many days untouched, the curtains smell musky, boards creak uncomfortable under my feet, not used to strangers. I walk to his perch, left without its occupant since Nimue. In the dark room, there is little not to see. I imagine his head pressed next to his side and his yellow eyes shining as they circumspect me. 

I open the curtains to let in the light, destroying the images of the darkness. Clouds of dust erupt from the curtains in plumes and dance in the sunlight before settling on lamps and furniture. The new sun creates shadows where before there were none. I appreciate the dark corners with their mysteries and welcome the clarity of open spaces. I take them both together.

I examine the perch sympathetically and smile sadly. It's occupant is obsolete. I hang up his wings and walk away. 

Silencing Archimedes--in poetry

He comes and folds his wings on purple days

before the clouds can break above the mind

when hazy meadows hover after eyes

and heavy clouds hang in the heart and head.

Inquest in his searching eyes, swiv'ling skull

is wisdom's guise--doubt, cynicism and 

pride prompts present'ment and unrest. He chides

with spiked tongue and talons, disturbs the fog. 

But the Sun comes, cutting clouds, dispelling 

doubt and expelling all unease. Now new light

colors meadows in the dawn; and diff'rent 

birds sing down my sanguine mornings.

I do not hear the night bird's sound anymore.

I hang up his wings to the perpetual day. 

Letters, Dear Depeche Mode

Letters: 

So, I think a lot about internal dialogues--my own and that of others--and lately my internal dialogue has consisted of letters, and I don't mean the alphabet kind. While going throughout my day, I'll often think something like "Dear Raisins, I love you for being so delicious, easy to carry, and child-friendly. I heart you. Sincerely, Paige" These letters have never before met paper, and, with a very few exceptions, have never been said out-loud. I feel that I should change this; therefore, I present, probably more for my own amusement rather than yours, a new series: Letters. 

Dear Depeche Mode,

SotU is, as expected, utterly brilliant. It is, admittedly, rather similar to "Angel", but no matter, it was there that I first found and fell in love with you. You are, undoubtedly, the gods of my hallowed electronic rock--even the Pet Shop Boys can't compete with you globally, which makes "Sounds of the Universe" so apt a name. It was your industrial sound and skill with the synthesizer that emblazoned you on my arms. Furthermore, with your lyrics, we are of one heart and one mind. I cannot praise you enough. xoxox

Paige

P.S. Love for influencing my beloved band The Killers.