Silence within as without. Filtered through the beetle-black night, full of its mocking and rain, the simmering stars caught behind clouds that won’t part. There’s no harm in dreams, until dreaming fragments, and tries to embed itself in reality.
This year still has the shine of promise, the gleam of starlight on my teeth. I can still get out. My dreams, my own delusional thoughts frighten me. I don’t know what I see; finding patterns between those stars, where nothing but myths and moths should exist. I still wonder. But wondering can lead to irrationality, especially where my boredom threshold is concerned
(I’m a catalyst for my own downfall, seeking -)
And here we are again, this thing that I tried to leave behind. It’s not in my eye, and I think too much. See too much of what isn’t there. Breath braiding on empty air. Words unspoken, perhaps never thought.
Life is an open door at last. As ever, I run with bare feet, to feel the world turn beneath … taking me far enough down that Mercy Street that the cats are my corners, and I need not look back. Need not return.
But that’s another story, as yet untold. And if recent events have shown me anything
(always learning, always watchful)
it’s that this world can be beautifully brutal and sympathetic by turns, where it has need to laugh and control and understand and deride.
Not my world and
Not my storm
Of words and thoughts
Of lives and lies
These dreams we have
Die in the dawn –
I have had a hankering for my old country lately. Not my birthplace, no, only somewhere I knew in earliest childhood, by its glassy air and diamond teeth and right-angle roads; forests so green that they became black under a midwinter sun. Deer disappearing into the mist that curled about ancient trees; homes filled with stories of matter-of-fact life, and love (something like it) death. Beautiful and bitter as frost.
Blue mornings, all pale fingertips and rising breath, and a blackbird’s warbling call, so descant that those mountain-teeth rang to its sound.
I want the pine-forest stillness again. A chapel of trees in auburn shadows, rippling needles, and the shade where no flower will grow. Not even the roses, so blue.
The old places call us home in the end. It’s about time I got my travelling feet back.
Silence within as without.