They painted her like a fawn in the moonlight, but she struck out of her skin like a werewolf leaving nothing but bones in the waking world.
She can speak to snakes; they are binary logicians. Pure determinists – faith means nothing to the Tau-impaled.
In the sun, she wields a bow, and her marksmanship channels the arrow.
In the moonlight, she wields the sword, a sword made of glowing heat, a sword with no metal, but only light.
She only wields weapons while wearing a blindfold.
Her mother was a monster, and she suckled upon the breast of a beast.
Her father was a Lion, and he gave her a sheathe to club the sharp upon.
In several lifetimes, she was torn apart limb from limb and her name lived in ashes.
In several lifetimes she cast curses, becoming a tyrant witch.
In several lifetimes she sought revenge, and in half of those she found it.
In several lifetimes she forgave the faceless men, and departed her body.
In several lifetimes she transcended her mentors, an heiress of the Anakim.
There was unspoken, the beating heart…
Whispered, the dream of the mind –
and then, another place, Ntyr –
a new sun rises,
not one in the east or west.
The tribe of the painted skull,
they ride wild horses, and their chariots wheels glazed in ice
could pass over any plain, or plane.
upon their beloved, theirs gifts were imparted.
chosen men and woman, to hear their secret whispers
to see with the aleph – eye
the language before babel, when words rang unspoken,
pure thoughts as aether, impressions of possibility
mixed into earth’s splendor, blending like watercolors
shades of meaning communicated many layers
and they saw geometry
and they smelled algebra
and letters were utensils
by which they pieced apart their meals
a feast that would sustain for many nights…
in “their” world, you would see dragons
but they are in truth the manifestation of what shines
In the darkness the eyes rest, and vision glows – the luminary aftermath of heated fusion.
They cannot speak to you the way you learned to talk,
but their spoken word is the dance and the turn of an arc
passing under a spiral, a sphere, the grid-layers of microscopic blocs –
and the ratio between the lines becomes a snail and a sea shell
and you can only say the empty words in the mother tongue
because babel is burned and gone
you know not of the wisdom layered between the poems and fables
not of the mystery of painters or their runic books
concealing stories of aeons, concealing powers hidden by forgotten gods….
to rule among the stars above
to implore the dusty world below
the multitudes scream and shout and scratch
and paw at the endless envy that seems to touch the clouds
hoping to knock off a droplet, to quench the thirst of desire
the fire is the drink itself
hell is no more than the self-deceiver
no thing moves at the last
yet most of them
they thrash and spasm in tear goblet containers,
illusions of intersecting experience
and when death has claimed them
they will laugh ultimately
seeing the unseen scene all along
in dreams the wakers find the egregor,
among them you are, hidden and glowing
only the archetypes beyond man know of ye
but they know of ye
by more than name or face or even soul,
they know of ye beyond what you are
they beckon for the kneeling
and the limbless levitate
and the blind are rapt by paintings
purely for themselves do reap,
the bounty of Golgotha
crashing upon the sea shoals
the barnacles tethered to the belly of the pier
the songs the tide weather, the sails of the seafarers
unfurled upon the winded gust
arcane are the creatures that dwell in the deep
brave is the diver, tentative are the submarines
below the waves, the ruins weep
the long and resigned sigh
sent to the surface in bubbled telegrams
of weathered artifacts
sliding back into the craters of sand
dissolving, down below the bosom ocean
they say that bricks and mortar are made
in the context of centuries, the breathspan of man
but other eyes watch millennia pass
in the span of boiling blanched,
a teabag pulled into a watery glass
and several cycles of history passed…
upon their fingers, whole universes whirr
like clockwork, spinning the arrow of time to and fro
but the brain , like the blueprint of factory belts,
can only construct one thing, albeit masterfully, and with superior skill –
it can only create a clockwise apparition
and while the driver inside the carriage whips the reins
sometimes the chariot gallops, or else it slogs
the hros changes lanes
but the rails remain the same
this is the riddle of the benben bird
the torn watchtower of ziggurats past
now only the stairs and the alter remain…
and saturn’s rings snicker
and the bell tolls on the hour
her ankles are chained
and his tempers flare too soon for her salted wound
he wants everything seared black and toasted
he is beyond anger now
it’s neither righteous nor monstrous
can you hear the wailing? that’s desperation.
there’s no quelling it now
the Red’s claw reaps its rewards
its been fed the heartfelt wish
of many dreamers
but she wants no part of this
she leaves a doll in her place
slips out through the back window
gone with the hiss of the coming storm
towards the valley of the vale
in another quadrant of earth
there is hope for respite
love? Reunion? forgiveness?
the witch is wary of the beast’s bloodlust…
and the nobody is stuck in a bomb shelter screaming about the end of the world…
and the birds chatter frequently, comparing the climate of Antarctica to France
and the hive mind is zombified,
and the watchers bet on roaches
and the tower’s prisoner is dead as a doll
and that girl seeks the boy
before the painful transmutation undergone by the man
she seeks him below the equator belt
and beneath the pillars of the earthen salt
and plunges with a mask and a torch into dark caves
and ignores crystal plumes and sulfur pits
she searches for what lies beneath the callous
she walks in rags through the desert, barefoot on the blistering sand.
only bones are preserved here, under the thickets of dunes.
ignoring the oasis, ignoring the fruit and the water, she trudges on
there is something off in the distance which is not a mirage.
it’s unclear when or where this promise might be found
whether the whispers in her ear can be trusted as sound
whether hope is a trickster and love is a fool
but in any case to one direction she is bound
to see her quest through to the end
to leave her pursuers with their puppets to enact their ritual ends…
the veil shortens, calling the chosen to find el dorado
and she seeks a new answer, a path unwritten
a new ending to the story
a sort of justice
one without the stain of blood.
Her mother was the Lady of the Lake. Her gift was Arthur’s sword. And to her his sword was returned.
Her father was a smithy of a certain sort. In that sense, he helped fashion the sword. Too bright to look at squarely, her father spoke in celestial tenor and tongue;
imparting lullabies to her in the day,
he sung sweetly in her ear so that she would not be lonely as she searched for her home.
Her sword drinks the water and the moonlight. It emits both emits and detains the rays of the sun and glistens like diamond dust. It is never empty, nor heavy. But rarely is it swung.