This time he’s breaking, while the moon turns its back and the days grow longer, his retain is cracking, a riddle is becoming harder to take, his mind its delicacy is becoming the ides of parts. Revelry broken, tangled weeds, a mind tattered, rocks in fine sand, there in fashion he falls, there alone he recedes before the raw darkness, before the emptiness of a beautiful mind. This time there’s a hopeless lonely dark spark, a soul with carved cuts in the shape of isolation. What silence beholds this dark eyed grace, held by daemons in haunting screams my heart, he falls in the ides of parts?
In seconds, moments of jagged pain, cold realities of fragile dreams are released. Words, diagnosis, prognosis of logic sifting and coming forth like dead Greek winds on the oaths of Hippocratic knowledge. Tablets to stop the rain, to paste together false band aides on the ides of parts. On his knees, his silver Magen David hanging wet with damaged cries. A misunderstanding between his creator, his Hashem, his builder and he. The long night wears on, he conceives, he breaks and still he shines in this strange dance, this bloodless war born in the mind of my son. Here, he alone, he within me, and yet so far from where I can stand, his to crawl into the ides of parts.
Like a waterfall that crystalizes and is born into quartz his mind finds sheen, and in division and ritual it creeps. The echoes of his screams will not die, they hang delicate in the night air unmoved by his father’s prayers. It is the Ides of Parts. All is well I suppose. In tragedy all kingdoms are given. What is broken is unyielding and it is like Ryan’s love, great and unfolded, he gleams like a dominion. He is like an enchantment billowing his story untold, and even in this mindless place of dialogue between logic and pain, he shines. Like the glow of those mysteries written upon runes that no mortal eye can see, he lives, suffering, gleaming in the ides of parts.
For (the reason) my son Ryan whom I love very much. – דָּנִיֵּאל