Categories
Creative Writing Poetry

Hamartia

By living this way, I am killed, every day.

Mirage after mirage, my hands pass only through thin air, and I’ve come to loathe the sight of shimmering water.

It’s funny, how invention is most visceral to me;

My mind and spirit swell with its overpowering resonance –

I, who would long to love truth more than anything.

From the beginning, so much is full of contrivance…

No soul may ever really honor the right to know another.

Categories
Poetry Stories

The redemption of Ungit

Blood flows over me, filling and spilling over the pits and lumps in my face.

Appeased, I relish the offering – life gives itself to me, and I drink thirstily;

This is beauty to me – I cannot have enough of it –

Red and coagulating, it clings to and covers the ugliness of myself.

I have never wept for any creature that is sacrificed on me –

Perhaps because each one feared me and my unending lust for the price of innocence.

Yet, you came untrembling, gentle, and lay your life over me.

I could not move in that moment, and was as a stone – fear me, fear me!

I am afraid; fear me!

Water runs down my face – it is your tears, and mine – why do I cry?

No sooner than when that life washed over me was I no longer a ball of blackened blood –

My visage has returned to one grey and undulating, like any of earth’s stones, and I am purified.

I don’t sit in a temple filled with cloying blackness or the smell of perfumed death –

Instead, I am in a forest, and it is morning;

Dew kisses my face, the birds are singing, and light shines through the new leaves.

I am soft for the moss that grows on me, and a bird plays in the places where water pools –

Life has grown on me, and I do not need more.

Categories
Poetry

The Rest of Time

In an orchard, apples are ripening, making their thin branches to bend in selfless burden. The harvest is here- no hours remain for pruning or grafting.

The breeze rustles the paths of the gardeners who have only to gather the bounty that withstood an eternal year of toil. Meanwhile, fallen, rotten, and soured fruits were lost to the wasps and worms.

Delirious with sweetness that now makes itself fully known, feasters gaze at the stars in peace. There is no thief left to come steal, none who still thirst for blood. The rains and snow are now gentle and whispering, and the winds only tousle with the intention of delight, murmuring mysteries to keen observers.

Here is a city that never sleeps for the reason that there is no need – the streets are illuminated always, the ramblers and galavanters guileless and trustworthy. The flowers in proportionately-peopled parks are lovingly tended, and propagated to any wanting patch of barren soil.

Both the boisterous and reserved have no wants, other than to be in one another’s company, and speak of God and his various gifts, and how they are bestowed upon every soul, in a continuing call to creation.

Wholly good is the holy time that has finally come nigh!

No thing is twisted, confused, nor obscured –

In sorrow’s stead comes the final word.

Categories
Poetry

Volume

Just see things move in space,

The roadside grass flashing by;

The shapes in the distance crawling along.

Feel lenses stretch and shrink to focus first on the raindrop residue on the window

And then on a cloud in the exact same spot, thousands of feet away,

Whirling in grand pinnacles and arches and mountains in the air.

See how the shapes of the spaces between branches change as you move through them,

How light shifts and humidity fluctuates and temperature varies;

Even your own form and mind morph – how could things get boring for us?

Let’s strive to reverse that.