Ετικέτα: symbolism

Whorls

The Veil
I move but I do not move.
The ground,
if there is one,
shifts beneath me.
All around,
the color of closed eyes,
the weight of tears,
the slow collapse.
No purpose.
No time.
No end.

I reach, but my fingers do not know touch.
I speak, but the words are swallowed.
Here is the origin of silence.
Here absence curls into my veins,
and I am a thing drifting,
adrift,
adrift.

Thrum
A sound.

A whisper of motion.
A stirring,
a tremor,
the air being torn.

Wings.
A hush,
a sigh,
a slow insistence,
a deepening drum.

I know they are close.
Somewhere in the heavy dark,
something flies.
Its beating,
its constant rising—
it does not stop.
It grows.
It grows.

Clutch
The darkness breaks in ribbons.
Coiling tendrils,
white smoke,
lace torn from a dream.
They do not fall; they twist,
reaching,
reaching—
I do not want them to reach me.

Hands.
Soft fingers.
A touch on the wrist,
a palm pressing my chest,
an embrace,
a grip—
they hold,
they squeeze,
they steal the movement from my limbs.

Silence worse than screams.
White that has not light.
They are white but they are not warmth.
They are the pallor of things left too long in the dark.
And I know,
if I let them,
they will keep me.

So I fight.
I tear,
I twist,
I break.
I run from the pale hush of their hold,
I escape,
they collapse,
they dissolve,
they dissolve.

The Gate, The Eye, The Light That is Not Seen
It opens.

A cleft in the black,
a vertical slit.
Not a wound.
Not a maw.
An eye—
watching,
watching.
A gate—
waiting,
waiting.

I advance.

I do not see light.
Still,
I know it’s there.
I feel it against my skin,
a pulse,
a radiance.
I do not know its color,
but something inside me names it—
Yellow.

Yellow that hums,
yellow that soothes.
Yellow that does not demand,
yellow that is.
The warmth of a flame.
The quiet stretch of dawn.
The shimmer of pollen drifting in a summer breeze.
A blush of sunlight touching mountain peaks.
A flicker.
A mellow sheen.
A honeyed glaze.
The ripe swell of a peach.
The sunflower.
The dune.
It does not pull me.
It does not push me.
I exist within it.

I close my eyes.
The darkness is still there.
I let go.
And I do not fall.
I do not fall.
I fall.

Black

Black,
in myriad forms, a cloak of endless hues,
Atramentous shadows bleed into the edges of my sight,
the charcoal sketch of a dying day,
a dying planet,
a dying world,
its ember-soft remains against the duskiness of the sky.

Coal lies buried deep,
smirched by the weight of time,
inky veins,
midnight rivers of what’s forgotten,
flowing beneath the crust of eons.
A pitch-thick silence hangs,
funereal smoke drifts,
from singed dreams and ashen hopes.

Sable night, swathed in swarthiness,
an obsidian sheen reflects my sombrous heart.
The niello of stars burns faintly,
silver smirks against my melanotic skin.
And the raven, with wings of denigration,
cuts through this inkiness,
a fleeting shadow across the moon’s pale face.

Swartness lingers,
tar-like,
clinging to breath and thought.
It is the soot of forgotten fires,
the ebony truth that loiters
long after the flame.

Once, the crows spoke of melanism,
their voice a funereal hymn to the sloe fruit’s bitter bite,
the kind that stains lips with its essence.
Even the smoke whispers of this:
the ink of words left unwritten,
the obsidian shards of dreams.

There is beauty in this world,
in the raven-black canopy of stars,
in the singe of forgotten coal,
in the darksomeness of wild things.
Ebony branches claw at the sky,
by a dusky sun that fades into jet-streaked horizons.

Darkness is not emptiness;
it is the fullness of mystery.
A sombrous smoke that curls upward
like a prayer,
unanswered,
but still offered.

Black is a world entire,
a raven’s cry in a midnight forest,
a smirch that marks the soul
and makes it whole.