born of flesh
borne by earth
choked divinity caught at the thresh
lay numb beside the kindled hearth—
fall down, fall down,
let vaulted rain yet drown—
the wriggling flames
of dancing dreams
cannot survive the niggling games
blacktop shadows wove within the seams—
lie down, lie down,
buried by the wetted crown.
The old man glimpses ore
in earthen womb, the stricken glint
illuminates thought of youth’s gold score
which held him up as on a splint
until time bore that nothing more
than dreams existed in the dint
of nothing, wielded like a whore.
Veiled dancer. Terracotta figurine from Myrina, ca. 150 BC–100 BC. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The final chapter, as continued from part 1 and part 2:
Disconnect. Static ambience…a one, two, three stumble into disarray. Everything cuts out as the dark one crosses the threshold, and the world spins around him.
The floor is on his back–or is his back on the floor?
To the sharp, drawn-out shrill of a woodwind, the portal closes behind him and vanishes entirely–shutting out all shreds of light beyond. Hands stretch along the stone, but there is nothing. He rolls and presses, scrambling for the escape, but nothing remains.
Only the overwhelming presence of absolute silence. Like a tomb, but without even the flies to keep him company.
One foot after the other, he steps toward the wide plaza at the building’s center, visions of a duel and of roses bloomed beneath bursting galaxies moshing through his head.
Candlelit flickers make dancers of the shadows. They take an altar for their stage, and at first there is nothing but the shrine. It is vacant, its only markers the plain red cloth draped across its barren surface, and the mountainous mass of beaded necklaces, their shattered loops forming the colorful peaks of devastation.
Nevertheless, the light strikes it remarkably, pouring down in vibrant beams of sapphire and emerald as cast by the stain glass sky hovering just above it. Depicted therein, a blasted and burning ship sinks into a storm-tossed sea, a sanctuary island of vibrant life settled just out of reach.
All hands will go down with the ship.
He steps forward into the room and his boots clap loudly against the stone, echoing between the pillars and the rocks that hold the building aloft. An equally brisk “shh” reverberates in response.
Spinning on his heels, an explosion of reality greets: the light enraptures him, smothering the expanse of the room and blinding him in liquid absence. Blobs of color dancing through burned eyes take the shape of familiar faces, and the room is populated at last–the die cast to the gentle swell of the drums. There is thunder in the tuba of the earth’s fair roar–and he cannot but consider that he has been here before, and this world, and this room, and all before him is nothing but the end of time.
Purgatory, perhaps? Or the dream of living?
Dozens of identities bow to the rhythm and the roar, and as their hands fold across the seams of shadow-licked robes, the rumbles of the earth settle into dust beside. Only one of them looks up, watching with eyes long-struck. They are the ocean, and the sky–the ripple of all, clouds and waves and passion long contained. He is bared to her. He is speared before her.
The dancer.
A smile crooks her head into the bow, and with the fading of her eyes, so too fades the light of the flames.
He finds his feet. There is only forward, or there is nothing–he is weighed, faltering beneath the heavy hand of shadows lurking, but he throws himself against their walls, bloodies himself on the strain of his own momentum. His hand is in the air. His hand is air. His hand is in her hair and he throws back the cowl that would hide the light itself.
Heads move to the motion, all masks and eyes. There is no retreat. Her skin, porcelain beneath the light. Sad light. Mournful light. Her slender neck is bared, and the breath of music itself holds to the touch upon her skin.
He cannot feel.
And the masks smile.
Urban decay. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A continuation from part 1:
There is a girl, dancing. Alone in the pitiless darkness of the moonlit night, the wind catches her hair and sways her swirling body to and fo as the leaves of the endless rows of circling trees begin to whistle and hiss. She rides the storm. She slows with every crack of the thunder’s whip. Back arches, lips part; her arms rise as if in composition, as her legs angle, her body silhouetted against the inky backdrop for an instant as she pitches her body into the sky.
Trailing through the brimming storm, strong legs touch down, feet slipping into the muck. Her body folds, crouching, eyes shut as she clutches to herself. A flash of lightning gives to total darkness.
There is nothing left of the body or the woman.
The dark one finds himself standing alone amidst a wide, desolate city. A tomb of grey–the sky is as dead and soulless as the walls that bar him in. Nothing bares itself to him save the forward path.
From realms unseen, the song enters into a furious upturn. He stumbles and the drums thrum and boom to a ferocious beat; the tubas swell beneath them, all breath sucking inward as the cacophonous strikes come deeper and swifter, supported by the soft, though hastening gathering of delicate high-pitched caresses–a legion of flutes, building to some unknown climax.
A note holds as he scrambles into the light. The city itself holds no sounds beyond the confines of his own shallowed breathing. A man could lose himself here, for detail is lost. Everything looks the same. Only height seemingly denotes any difference in the buildings arrayed before him, the high towers stretching into the nothingness of the sky until they, too, are lost.
The climaxing brass dies away as he begins to shamble inward. The percussion drops into a low, gathering repitition as the woodwinds press forward their own assault, consuming the city in a crescendo of caressing breaths.
In the emptiness of his paths, there remains nothing for him. His eyes shift, searching. A door beckons.
Eye death. Non-commercial use. (Photo credit: @Doug88888)
Two figures lurch across an open field. These brothers come to stand mere feet apart, eyes locked as their hands steady above their belts. There are guns, somewhere, and knives eneath these, but the hands do not betray the moments–they know their duty to the instant, and so they wait. Morose reflections in a quaking mirror. One dark, one light–the clothes and the motions distinguish them, but no other differences pass between.
Pacing, pacing. Eyes close to the crunch of hard grass.
The twin illusions stop, fingers dancing along the surface of their weapons. Both draw, though only one fires before the instant has passed them by. The man in white lumbers and sways, clutching at his throat as thick rivulets of scarlet cascade down his pale flesh to dribble at his feet. Hope smothered in crimson denial–the reflections shimmer and fade as one image drops into the dust.
Darkness stretches as a shaking hand stretches out to him. He stares into the eyes of the fallen, but pays his hand no heed. Eventually, it slackens and falls, desperately scratching at the dirt. The shadows are cold. Though smiling beneath crazed eyes, the survivor’s dry hands fold hot and delicate over one knee. He’s stifling a laugh.
Poor fool. Certain things are set in stone. You cannot change what you aren’t destined to achieve. At any rate, you don’t have the will to do so. Checkmate. Endgame.
3…2…1…
Now departing…life.
A low, thundering note begins to stir as one cold, clammy hand reaches down to tangle in the soft locks of the broken reflection. Fingers coil and toy.
The image vanishes altogether.
Scene shift. Reel missing. Technical difficulties: don’t mind the wait. The beat is stirring, the tempo gathering as the bass begins to build.
A storm stirs.
(Part 1. To be continued.)
In frost springs the fall,
fleet-footed hunter dancing
through valleys yoked and fair.
The little one, sheltering in shade
breathes only darkness
where the shoe once fell.
Dreams of the day
he’ll tell the little children,
when men conquered mountains.
Jacob's Dream, by Adam Elsheimer. Image care of Wikimedia Commons.
Child wakes
the deep dark drink
Eternity
lost somewhere between
the closet and the sheets,
mother’s cries no assurance
to the ones that can still see.
Only bears might be knights
to ward reality another night;
only dolls might soothe the tears
of time’s inevitable drum.
One more night, they cry,
and the pillow does oblige.
* After the theme of imagination I laid out yesterday, I thought it only appropriate to offer up a poem to it too. It is a precious gift, mankind was given. A tragic fact that it is too often lost as the child drifts into adulthood…
Gold paths contain fine meals,
thousands to the dollared flesh
divined by rare suit gestures—
even time’s hand a sacred cost.
To the bursting, cries the chef
as I lay my body down,
waiting for the planes
to burn this hollow out.
Snow frosts the window panes
beyond man’s wheels,
ice gathers undertone, underfoot
scaling climbing souls.
Is it déjà vu?
Nestled in the mountains
I dip within the brook,
at once sinking to the chill,
yet sunward bound.
There is a drink of maple
spread beside the banks
where this tired spirit
might ponder yet the lost.
There is silence in the breeze,
the break of waves like men
signaling open seas beyond clouds,
an open breath for crossing.
*Welcome, one and all, to the the Waking Den, and to my latest offering to the good times over at dVerse Poets Pub. I hope you like what you’ve seen, and I look forward to reading your works as well, but I’ve also got a big announcement to make, and in case any of you lot missed it yesterday, I thought I’d leave you all with a link: http://cianphelan.wordpress.com/2011/10/17/the-hollow-march-begins/. Forgiving the giddiness of a younger writer for a moment, I also add: more announcements to follow in the days to come – exciting no?
Thank you for all your support! It’s a lovely community we have here in this blogosphere.
Nights grow cold
moonlit salivation
stirs frosted dreams.
A turnkey sparks the dragons
Where crystal twilight trickles.
Stop.
Smeared shadows mourn looking glass—
No more.
Mother primes the engine,
Tear-laden, rain-streaked, the world—
Can you see it?
The rain,
Where it falls
It dances on the starlight of our—
Passing dreams.
The child seeks winged flames
Wreathed and wrought of golden beams,
Of fancies crafted, never birthed
But it’s not there, it never were
It’s Neverwhere for a reason, not—
Do they pay for lies?
What is a truth but
Some vision we go weaving
Through the strands of our reality,
This Life,
You can call strands what you will:
Good artists never see
Whole pictures till they’re through,
No more than wars and wyverns
Have the whole taste
Till the meal’s all burnt up.
It’s not a feast.
It’s nothing but.
Life is what you see.
Life is what you see—
But the picture’s spinning like a top
Balanced on the mind’s own eye.
* Got to get my writer’s self back into this blogging groove. It’s been a while since I’ve greeted you all with some poetry, so I hope you like this latest little bit of internal drama from this humble writer’s pen. Furthermore, I’m linking her up to the good folks at dVerse Poetry Pub, and tonight I do believe I’m going to go hunting back through all those other poets from whom I have been so long parted.
Additionally, I’m currently on the market for some good reading…if any of you have any writers or books to suggest, lay them on me, will you? I’m lost if I’m not feeding the literature beast within my soul!
