There is a line.
On one side calm
the other tension
an invisible wall holding them back
because someone told them
there is a line
that no one can see
but all must honor,
like gods, ghosts, or mythos.
Violence lines up in its name
fearful eyes hoping the line will hold
bricks of faith – mortar of tradition.
When they fall
the world quakes
beneath the weight of our imaginations
violated.
Roughly hewn bold shoulders pierce clouds
hearing through the soft cotton of the sky
in an eternal attempt to deny
the cost which time at length enshrouds
a history of chaos caught in contortions
the passing days a gentle rain in the ocean
Where the transient will see might
the ageless will recall violent trauma
millions of years in tectonic drama
to break the skin with vicious spite
resigned to the cosmos. Never to move again
until at last these same forces push them to their end.
They quake with anticipation
an unbearable anxiety
that brings them within reach of piety
at the expense of damnation
the earth a parchment on which will be writ its dirge
should the progenitor finally emerge
By the time that day came to pass
the monster spoke with fire now set free,
“I give to the world what it took from me,”
buried it in molten and ash
then, at last, returned to the earth from which it came
never knowing it had itself to blame.
The canvas is bright with lights
there lies the future – burning
the dark sutured around it like a wound
slowly cauterized
Violence
strikes in the night
expressed as darkness in geometry
the light extinguished
in triangles
squares
rectangles.
The world disappears
panic is hidden amongst the shadows
the future is mourned
The past ignites in old fires
rising high into the clouds
the corpse pyres of dying dreams
wake something primal.
Dancing flames tell stories
our eyes would not otherwise hear
hearts are warmed while minds break
the end is bright.
Maps were drawn
to keep the world at bay
when the world seemed so vast.
Lines were used to convey
a sense of place
restraint,
else how would we face
the endless geography
untamed?
When we could not find words
we used our words instead
reducing the new and strange
to memories alive or dead,
a part of ourselves at play
in labels
for all that is touched by night or day.
Grow Gray With Me 