A doorway to you,
starry coat of velvet dark.
Dim the lights and dream.
For I have seen,
The ruins of a grand temple,
hidden now amongst groping vines;
Under a canopy thick with green.
Further North, a basin rests,
With a beast at its heart.
Through the mist, I caught its scream,
As its three spider limbs scrabble in the dark.
“If only I was done, for Mt. Bonochi tires,
Facing an army of clouds, and relentless rain…”
And the story went on; but little did the listeners know,
The temple remained unseen, and the beast in the mist unslain.
Closing this book before it begins would be a tragedy, so we keep re- reading
our lines, repeating what we know is right.
When I’ve fallen close to the ground you keep me floating. How long ‘til you
give in? My heart can’t emerge from below
the ground if you don’t fight for new soil.
Mud dries, pages loosen.
This story starts with you and me.
This heart is more pain than pleasure; more villain than victor
Thriving in the breath of ashes gathered from burning time in all the places we don’t fit.
But it’s the only one brave enough
To navigate in the dark beyond right and wrong to meet our dream in a sky we can’t see
To taste fire in the beautiful chaos of an almost lover’s absinthe lips of apocalypse
To pick poison after poison to feel alive
And still survive.
Beware – black and white.
Much easier to love or hate
than to understand.
What were you doing
at midnight last night?
were you in the depths
of the deepest slumber,
wrapped in the warmth
of your blankets?
or did you lay awake
battling the villains
and demons in your brain,
desperately trying to slip
into the solace that sleep brings?
or were you dreaming
of laughing and dancing
with a gorgeous lover,
laughing and flirting,
as happy as you could ever be?
because at midnight last night
i was wide awake in bed
with my thoughts and feelings,
just wondering what tomorrow
and the next day will bring.
so what were you doing
at midnight last night?
As morning crested the side of Tink Ravine, Mahofon stirred. He blinked but it hurt. He lay on his back, feeling a great tension in his muscles. Very cautiously, he turned his head to either side, testing his diminished strength. With him lay Dulkatra, who clutched his hammer as he slept. The tents were cramped and unsuited for the two of them. Light filtered through the thin hide of the tent, highlighting the patchwork and stitches that kept it functional. Other than some scattered belongings, that was all that resided in their shared home.
Mahofon worked the courage to sit up, and eventually he gathered himself and his drooping staff to face the sun once more. His skin felt sensitive to the change of light intensity as he pushed the cover of the tent and stepped outside; the aftereffects of his far sight disaster, he knew, would be felt through the following, trying days. He had pushed it too far – it was an arduous task regardless, but he had tried to sense something far beyond his understanding. He had been punished. He questioned what could be capable of such immense power, that it could attack him without contact, in fact with a sizable distance between the two. It was magic he had never before seen, even as the leading magician of the tribe. His mind was far from at rest, filled with dread as to what exactly existed is this wasteland.
He gazed around the small campsite. The smoldering remains of the fire sent wisps of trailing smoke skyward. The few that had awoken lounged around, eating foul smelling meats or talking – once they saw Mahofon however, silence prevailed. No one dared asked what had happened, and a steady fear seemed to creep to each one’s eyes. After some time, the chatter returned. Tents began to be rolled and strung to packs, and before the sun reached midday, their steady march went on. It wasn’t long before irregularities began to appear in the terrain.
I could’ve written about
The stars shinning
And the moon hanging low that night.
The sea kissing the shore and
The warm wind softly moving
The hair from my face.
The trees swinging
In the calming melody.
Or the smell
Of salty sea that
Tickled my nose.
But all I could write
About that night
Was you and only you.
How your eyes pierced
Through my soul.
How your skin
Covered me like
The softest blanket
And your lips
Felt like mellow strawberries.
The smell of you
Got me drunk on your love.
We were high that night
And I think that even
The man on the moon
Was envious of our love.
I’ve been a mother since before my milk teeth fell out; broken marriage cavities drilling bull’s eyes in a mouth primed for extractions.
Permanent teeth hacking a premature rite of passage with the diseased pulp from a butcher named divorce because there’s no room for a child when the grown ups turn juvenile mocking disinfectant.
Young gums bleed less; learn even more quickly to clean up their own mess (and yours).
I’ve been a mother since you entrusted your mental health to dreams that died with a crude dissection of my hemorrhaging heart to stand on eggshells by your side.
I’ve been a mother since your Freudian slip displaced your misplaced affection in my swollen hips like weeds that grow in cracks.
But how do you ultimately kill a mother?
Do you suckle her soul right out of her breasts?
Do you grow too large for the space in her heart to stretch her womb (beyond its elastic limit) instead?
Do you coil/snake her umbilical cord back around her own neck?
Is it akin to killing a god?
Cause I swear I’ve been one every single time except for when the child was biologically mine.