Below the willows while they wept, the sun swept its faceless face
down the edge of the river. Ducklings tailed the twilight
light, vanishing quickly, toward the horizon
where, it seemed, even truth and beauty vanished. Below the darkness
darkening, quickly still, the bees mistook for forsythia and tulips
the lips of paper cups trembling, nearly toppling in the evening
wind, half-filled with wine from the cliffs of a country faraway
where the monks, having day after day tasted the soil and the rain, insisted
the grapes contained, in each form, each body and mind
willfully, though rarely willingly, revised and, night after night, devised
from an idea, the seed of it. We, to that end, could taste and experience everything
everything had been and been through. Did you? I've begun to believe
the present, like the shadows on the water, twisting, doesn't have to be a form
the past took. The past has taken so much. Must there be more
to give, to give back, to get on, or away, from this? My memory moored me.
Lifting, now, my cup to yours, my eyes to yours in the light
cast by the dark, I don't know if I can be known like that.
Fresh snow. Clouds of smoke. Flight without wings. Tower. Kings
demanding another story. Another dawn, sleepless, donning another
little death. Hooves of death I couldn't stop for
running through me until I was run through, laid like a feather-
blade, raw and bloodied. Blade made sharp by a throat. From that eternity
I found my way here less because and more in spite of, to spite
the land and the hands I'd been dealt. Soil and rain
and wind, blazing and billowing, like the cloak a saint wore
to put out a candle in a cathedral that will burn: my spirit persisted
despite resistance. How could I let the past be fused, perpetually, inside me?
Perhaps it's true, and I'm too selfish, wanting all the credit, to savor
the beauty of not having saved myself entirely by myself. Will you
look at that? Our cups are empty. Here. Let me. Let's see.
titsay
vaporwave
izzy806
baratheonpilled
