there is a whole world built in mystery, from sulfur, salt, and mercury that hides between the ones you see in cyclical exultancy. perihelion, so perfectly, for a moment, it comes close to me, so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead? christmas evening, everyone is sleeping, and i just found a rocky mountain columbine, petals torn and pressed between the pages of an old, abandoned, sketchbook. i’m reading an article about how the correct topology of cyclic cosmology might in fact be circle in circle, and i think i like the idea. that way, everything begins at the end, and there’s not a beginning at all. i’ve drunk far too much champagne. Advertisements
life. shadow and spire. something leaps like myth from the fire, and carries you higher. — on a midwinter’s evening, i promised forever i had mistletoe clasped between nervous fingers though the fog falls in curtains, i’ve a path lit with lanterns and a string of stars guiding me home.
i watched the whole world bloom into colour, one season into another looming lavender skies promised me thunder springtime on the edge of the mountain. then the days, growing softer and slower, one season into another humid evenings and wildflower honey, like sticky-sweet accents, all foreign to me. the last golden sigh of summer, one season into another a slow exhaling september the last of the sunflowers bow their heads. we pierce the darkest days of winter, one season into another holly, mistletoe, frost in the garden then stained glass, then snowdrops, then soon enough spring.
faith celestial braid. november’s grace. palest sky all glass and lace. the enshrined tide (starlight) of an orbicular ocean which will rush, rise, and subside in perpetual devotion. a silver sylvan siren’s whispered superstition offering divine direction, a path to dew drops and cyclamen, my lost pool of Siloam.
there are shifting sheets of sea and light just beyond the edge of sight and i’m unsure whether i’m more seaspray or shore sunstruck or adrift under sweeping stars
it’s 4am, august 17th, 2016. i’m wide eyed awake, and again, raising mountains in my mind – they’re the kind of peaks that can’t be climbed, and i just can’t figure it out, how to go about housing these flustered thoughts, each amplified by the low and heavy night, it’s bottomless, almost, dense with a silence so thick it threatens tangibility. i can almost reach out and with trembling fingers touch it. the night drips like ink, deep indigo spilling all over me, near-suffocating. can i be frighteningly honest? i’m struggling. soon, though. soon, sheets of sunrise will pour angularly, slanted and staggered through the painted pale blue shutters, and the thrown-wide-open windows , of this little limestone cottage, all covered in ivy, honeysuckle, and wandering fruit vines. how many hundred summers have these sun-bleached farm and manor houses seen? and, soon, the dappled gold gentle warmth of another late summer morning will set my skin aglow, turn my hair to straw, and the bedroom, with it’s net canopy and creaking oak floorboards, …