this grove mine to closed
sometimes gardening doubt
within the septic thorn
black in blood scratched
crosscut and hatched hidden
behind a thin pale veil
draped across my heart
in neverclean
Category: writing
neverclean
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash To Stone
Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash You and I, we hung moon in arctic turquoise skies above the gravestones of friends buried in the Evernight. For remembrance, certainly, but also for that our own souls could the words to move on. To find our smoke and ride the starry road North to Stone.
Ancestors, they came to our Gathering Flame; those sitting as were wont to sit, those standing as were wont of standing. All sought the Strange dancing in the flames, be they feather, flesh or fur. Even the alder man came, his sap reddening ran.
And they spoke at length for fourteen days of gloam, each giving words to carry to the below or for how they must be brought. We gathered and, just before the dawn meant for leaving shores, all gathered and sang to welcome the sun adorned.
One step, then four, we entered wearing our horns and gave to follow the floes, leaving the snowfells behind. And Ancestors? They watched, forlorn, each wishing in their own way our safe journey on to Stone.
killing jar
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash shake, twist the flame
dancing on the edge
give shout and no one
seems to hear
becoming flutter
all wraith and dream
with a voice gone mute
and eyes, no longer see
a history on display
inside for the killing jarburning books
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash these witching hour dreams
what are they supposed to
mean?
that chapter has long been
burned at the stake i cannot
will it into being
leave now, o ghost
so perhaps we can dream
another life
where our books no long burnreturns
muscle memory returns, slow
fingertips shredded to ribbons
a smile on my faceblind eyes close
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash gazing hand & shadow
this bone, this muscle
untouchable & tiring
skinstained with night
painted to stars myrkr
heavy, they anchor
a heart sent to slumber
under wood & gloaming
a kiss to blind eyes closesleepless
sleepless hands crab &
clutch at taut muscles
frozen long nights
eyes seeking skies for
the host on the ridesmudging space
Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash i smudge space most days
inviting spirits to my smoke at
campfires within indoor plains
for no reason at all
but to give them space to
rest their weary before
they carry on & then onA mercuric lake
Photo by Ville Palmu on Unsplash I have many thoughts trapped inside my head. I cannot free them because they are thoughts without words to go with them, or the words that might go with them are inadequate to express those thoughts. Trying to express those thoughts feels too much like, as Alan Watts would have put it, trying to bite my own teeth.
If I managed to construct those thoughts into something that could be understood, if I could find the words and unstop this mute mouth — would anyone read them anyway? I mean, really read. I am fairly certain that they cannot be words that can be heard, so I do not dare speak.
I have for a very long time tried to personally touch these thoughts, hoping to better understand people who struggled in much the same way as I do now to express inexpressible thoughts. Now that I am on that path, I understand their struggle. There are no words, we need a new language altogether to get at the words needed to explain explain explain. Maybe, I think these thoughts can only be expressed sideways, with a slipstream sense.
After I slip into the wilds, do you think you could find me? Would you want to?
The buzz of insects over a mercuric lake…
