A crushed jade beetle,
stirred in a tear-filled phial,
saffron smoke ascends.
The iron retort shivers,
Alchemy of naming life.
When the body folds,
the sky begins to fissure,
a crumbling mirage,
penumbra spiraling out,
there the precipice ignites.
The dust tastes of rain
two seasons away, yet she
will turn and walk on;
the old way is a slow, sure
persistent need in the bone.
I swallowed the ash,
my throat a dry, crumbling hole,
and swore on that dirt
I'd make you see what I meant--
Raising the dead is the truth.
The thin brass circle,
cold against the hollow bone.
It won't click open.
The past haunts the hinge's rust,
a face too faded to name.
I scratched through the silt,
feeling for the edge of pain,
the one that hid.
It came back, sharp as a glass,
shattering the day's last shell.
A shard of night up in the sky,
Releases its grasp, resting no more,
Wings that whisper, built of slate,
Echoes from silence,
Breaking through shadows.
Eyes of polished obsidian,
target the world below.
Each movement enticing,
Building up steam,
Knowing that life will soon fall unseen.
Then the moment, a plunge so deep,
A blur, a flash, of life’s retreat,
Talons outstretched, hooks of bone,
Thankfully swift, to that now known.
Silent trap, clutches, retreats,
Rising through moonlight,
Vanishes in stillness among the vast blue,
A terrifying beauty, relinquishes its jewel.
A piece of undone light.
It moves across the garden like a thought
too delicate to finish. Not landing,
but simply touching the air
where the lavender is warmest.
The slow, silent arc of the wing,
a whisper of deep yellow and smoke,
that doesn't hurry,
doesn't know a deadline.
And for just a moment,
everything else dissolves.
Just the hush of its passage,
a dream you almost caught
before your eyes were fully open.
She tips her head back,
the sky a vast, watercolor canvas stretching forever.
It's not just the blue she sees, or the lazy drift of vapor trails,
but the shimmering outlines of what could be.
The warm air brushes her face,
a whisper of all that's possible,
as her own soft breath
mingles with the vastness,
each exhale a silent release
into the ocean of tomorrow.
In that boundless quiet,
where the edges of earth blur into stars,
dreams aren't fragile whispers.
They're vibrant seeds,
planted deep in the cosmic soil,
already reaching, yearning,
for the sun of her becoming.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, in a daydream of thought, I wonder what it’s like to have silence, to not hear the thoughts in my head, to not overthink the simplest things.
Why is the towel slightly crooked? That spot on the front door, how long has that been there? Why is the paint on the cabinet buckling with the heat? Get up, fix it.
Fix it
Fix it
Fix it
And you do, you give in, you fix it, but, it’s not enough, there’s always something, not silence, no, always something thrumming, knocking, tapping, whispering…
To feel the empty. That silent shell. A tumbleweed of nothingness.
What is that like? Is it sweet? Is that peace? Or would I miss the noise? Would the silence be even more unbearable than the traffic jam of my own skull?
I don’t know.
I just reach out and straighten the towel.
That space.
Between present and the start of a daydream. When you’re so deep you feel like you’re somewhere else. Thoughts just flash in and out. Time passing, but standing still. You are not even inside yourself.
You just sit there. Silent. Free.
A quiet you can’t explain. And you’re someone who doesn’t know silence. It’s all of it at once: euphoric, deeply sad, frightening. I always wonder if this is what normal feels like. To have your mind just go, in and out of peace.
You float above yourself. A parallel universe.
Then, a sharp jolt. Something breaks the grip. You fall. Hard. Consternation. How did I even get here?
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