Tell the angels
To tuck away deep inside their chests
Such a cotton candy fire of winter sky raging,
Roiling in clouds there
Undeterred by storms
Or answers
Or truths
Provide no magic, no elixir
For human loss or longing,
Aching and confined in such beauty.
Wish I could rest beguiled–
Believing willingly in soft whispered lies
If only for this little while of rest
As if slipping easily between
The waxen petals of lilies
And curling round the sweetened smell
Of wonderous blossoming softness—
Yet the price, the price of choosing
The rest of such beguilement
Give me a minute.
Let me have another cup of coffee,
Will you?
Before I slosh on after,
Down the trail–
Again– maybe.
You say, a guard now stands there,
Of the newer variety,
Who advises of the locust thorns,
The kind that pierces the shoe
And can go straight into your foot?
Could have used that advice–
Once or twice
Maybe thrice
In life.
But now I’ve rubbed my thumbs
Over the sharp tipped thorns of regret
Until callouses formed.
Then I moved on to other
Fingertips until bloody, raw,
Proving to myself the sharpness of thorns.
So now, you say this stony guardian warns
Of all the thorns
Along the paths and trails?
Might this guardian advise of a thornless trail?
I really wouldn’t care, but the soles of my feet
Are without callous, and I’d like to keep them so.
Send me down a muddy, sloshy trail where
I might just fall and break my neck.
That would be simply fine,
If the soles of my feet
Remain as soft and unmarred
as a baby’s behind.
Walk with me among the ruins
I will show you the points of interest–
Notice the weeds grown up
between the cracks of stone,
the chambers filled with mold,
the temple fallen, the altar cracked,
seeming to fold.
Imagine who may have walked here
once so long ago,
wracking havoc with fire
upon those who called this home.
The fires burning to spite
the cold winter rain.
Those who survived left
staring into winter’s
icy back eyes
in the heart of it all.
Icy cold wind walks.
Blinding sunshine ironic,
Burning horizons,
Promises of warmth
Unfulfilled in morning’s cry
Of grey storm cloud’s tears,
And then nothing left
Of fires or dreams curling,
Blanketing round us.
Sleeplessness always told the story
Between the here and the now
The between and
What she thought a game
The tracks that led to nowhere
The last section of a living
Something not well lived
A swirl of memory
Piercing through knots
could not be undone
She had lived with no plan
With only a heart that failed
More than once
A heart she could not ever trust
A heart that spoke in religious tongues
She’d yet to understand
Its rhyme or reason for speaking
In lies and whispers,
For leading her astray,
For leading her to abandon her dreams and plans,
She would never know.
This was her last act, in her last years,
To strip herself of harlequin clothes.
As winter whispers
The longing starts
For warmer days
Of a warming spring
Leaking slowly
Into a sweltering summer.
As winter whispers
In pretense of knowing
Warmth and cheer
Of holidays it cannot contain
In its freezing coldness,
We are left untouched
For far too long—
Our souls grow grey
In these winter days
And leap at the hope
Contained in striking colors
Of Winter’s sunsets–
Only to have hope
Bashed, broken, bleeding
Against the frozen Winter
Ground. As Winter whispers,
Chuckling at our fragile humanity.
Curtains drawn against the sun
Of an autumnal afternoon
Spent in another hotel,
She drowns in what
The bathroom mirror shows
Of emptiness in sapphire eyes
As her empty heartedness grows–
Her wrinkles a road map
Of crosshatched lies
Told and lived even now,
As her fingers grip
The sink edges of porcelain
Cold against her skin.
Her mind swirls,
Dizzy, lost in her creations
Of new golden plated lies.
A world bequeathed to us
In the breaking sounds of softness
Sighs from the weight
Of lost innocence and souls,
Mourning the loss of her lineage of love
In our desire for riches and more,
Grows weary of the heaviness of us.
The tonnage of our selfishness
Swirls in her oceans,
Fouls her air,
Tears apart her mantle.
In anger,
Her sky weeps,
Her winds whip up her seas–
All to wipe the weight of us
From her face, her body.
Thus, the earth we bequeath.
Emptied vault opens,
casts leavings of shriveled seeds
beyond redemption.
Between the edges
nothing could penetrate here,
wind, rain, tears—nothing.
Sound had no life here,
dying in small deaths of emptiness,
eternal silence.
A life damaged beyond
repair, encased by cold stone,
a life of shriveled seeds,
lived in a stone vault—
lightless, soundless
thirsting.
https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2020/10/24/weekend-writing-prompt-180-vault/#comments
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