The curve of light
dances across violet satin
and falls into orange glow.
The rise of silver
crests emerald slopes
and wraps about long-lost
roads.
Silent echoes of the past day
sound and pull
apart the lines of time.
The spinning hand finds
a new home in ether
and stops at the sudden
precipice of nothingness.
The light and the echo
fall in pattern,
always to meet,
never to part.
I beg you to go
to go.
to do what all do.
But you don’t notice.
I ask you to go
after giving your glistening and bloody smiles,
and spare the fragments
of yourself you leave me with.
I ask you to go,
to be happy with others who
enjoy your heliocentric self more now.
I ask you to go
because you no longer notice what is wrong;
that I need you to go.
Please go.
I can’t face these torn stitches of what was,
and remain waiting for a friendly pat,
like a lonely beast curled in darkness.
Please.
Go.
….
…please…
The marrow freezes,
the skin prickles,
and I curl deep in blankets
piled high to block out
the dark of winter.
Every moment ticks by.
Every moment I should do something,
and instead I simply hide.
Like a mole sleeping far beneath
in a cradle of dirt and corpse-leaves.
The damp seeps between joints
and settles there.
I shiver and shake,
and burrow deeper,
and deeper,
until the weight stops the shaking.
I long for sun,
but there is peace in this layer of warmth,
so I sleep and wait.
When comes the moment,
our eyes lock,
across dark chasms of chatter
and curling smoke like chains.
I see your pain,
in that soft smile and nod,
and wonder how to save you.
You see mine,
the coyote-desperate fear,
and don’t know how to save me.
There are metalsmiths that could
trace the ruby hot agony between us,
sculptors who could mold
our faces frozen in stricken grimaces,
and perfumers who scent the
jasmine sour fear that lingers.
You turn first,
and go back to a conversation
that makes your tongue curdle.
I turn second,
and stare at what was once ours,
a reflection of me in a glazed, spotted mirror
that now shows only an isolated fragment
of something gone.
Time ticks.
It beats and throbs,
ebbs and cracks.
Willful hands move, hot and cold.
Spun in brassy ecstasy that spirals.
Early echoes of moments still to come,
Crisp and disturbed by muffled calls of space,
that sing across dreams,
down blackened slopes of night.
Moments that curl and rasp against
sensible fears.
Cusp of morn and doom of dusk,
Slaves of eternity,
wrapped in gossamer purple velvets,
and webs of fate and circumstance.
Time moves,
existing and not existing,
Until the clock stops.
I’ve been ill for a month or so, recovery took something out of me as I balance it with my day job. I’ve been writing and such, but nothing seemed to stick. Still, even those poems deserve to see some light. This blog is my practice in showing vulnerability in posting my works. So. If anyone reads my blog, thank you for waiting.
With a quiver,
I feel your fingers,
tracing paths of fire
and of ice,
over curves and lines,
lingering on scars
and swirling remnants of my past.
With a sigh,
I feel your questions,
and never answer,
to avoid breaking this devotional.
With loss,
I feel your touch leave,
as you move,
a shade fading to nothingness.
But did you ever
truly exist,
or did I create you,
to stave off my empty loneliness?
My fingers claw,
to grasp a ledge that crumbles beneath broken nails.
Far below yawns,
a chasm of inky eternity that screeches for satiation.
Feet dangle useless,
as tendrils of darkness curl about them.
I clutch safety,
but lose the will to grip with every beat of my heart.
The shadows call,
and the moments grow long and impossible.
I feel promise,
of a ruby cold release and the ending of the internal drum.
As fingers slip,
a sudden grip wraps about my wrist.
Soft eyes shine,
as the other self keeps me from falling to choking miasma.
Pulled to safety,
to solid ground to sit upon and breathe free for the first time.
Cradled by warmth,
held by a self much kinder than I have ever been.
Promised such protection,
I do not fall to that black eternity that strangles light.
We lie in cold beds of frost and leaves,
Curled like serpents for warmth.
Our fingers clutch,
Skin rippled as Wind gusts and gnaws at the limbs.
Ice cakes on our eyelashes, a drapery of cold.
Storms blow in and rage in sheets of white,
Shivers of frigid warning.
We curl tight together,
And fight the ice cage about us
as it clamps tighter.
Our bodies become one,
Bent in serpentine fashion.
Fighting slumber, knowing it to be eternal,
We rest and hide from bone-biting ache.
We never learn,
We never win.
We linger in a state of here
and of there.
Never moving.
Always resting.
Hoping for the brush of spring to wake us from
our cold, rigid dreams.
Buds of green on pale ivory,
Bark of coarse silver brown.
Blossom of thick green foliage
and rich scent of reborn earth.
Yellowing sun warms,
devours,
breathes.
The leaves lift to Helios
and sink into his touch on their veins.
Cloth of fire and gold drape branches
now sagging from weight.
Death lingers in the decaying artery.
A curtain released to fall,
gossamer delicate and sheepskin thick,
atop a freshly turned grave.
Decay withers the fiery leaves,
crumpled and blackened.
A carpet of death to be hidden,
by virgin and voracious snow.
Until edges of winter fade to newborn spring,
and the infinity loop is cast again,
an inevitable noose that tightens and twists.
Aether the Poet 