AglehTheRed21

Silence in the cold places, among the rocks. The eyes look out disapprovingly at my empty dreams and ask me to return to them. I glance around and hide my face for fear of them seeming all the promises in my eyes. All the old promises in theirs I know they would fulfill if given the chance. I try to tell them, the eyes, how much it hurts me to not be with them. To not answer their calls. But everything sounds like excuses, and the wind has no excuses. Am I so filled with fear that I would rather have my heart wrenched from me than follow it? But is there a clock? Is there a time when it will no longer be the same? But the eyes in the

Something here is passing, Like mist in an early morn Something here is passing, Without song or calling horn Something here is passing, Flitting between the trees Something here is passing, Like dead leaves on a breeze. Standing here you smell it, Like autumn come through spring, The smell of something ancient, A fading, breaking, thing. Almost, you can see it Like moss upon wet stone, Washing away with the river, A softly despairing groan. In evening light you feel it, Passing by just out of sight, Like the wandering lights of the forest, Fading with the night. In a starlit glen, with smoke upon your tongue, You taste the

The nights are dark Days are long They stretch on and on On into oblivion Such a pleasant thing to wallow in. Bathe your pale carnage therein Slick your hair Here the thrashing, soothing din Wash yourself till you are bare Willfully cleaned of every cry And tear you utter under sky. Wash your bleach boned arms It shall flow over breast Your heart keeping from all harm Here, you are at best And here you shall stay In oblivion washing away. And even as you step from the tub And streams of despair run down The curve of your spine they rub Rolling from your forehead as a crown. Now oblivion is wet upon your lips It splatters from your finge

To me that little puddle of sunlight streaming down amidst the shadows looks like a stair well. Golden and clear it spirals in a steep inclination towards the sun that rolls down its own stair case to cool in oceans. How bright the sky is on these long waiting days in which time throbs and stills, on and off, like a rattling heart beat. How small the clouds are in the evenings after day has stripped them of their grey and left them white and fluffy. Now every tree looks like acrylic over washed of watercolour; immersed in blackness so deep they become one dimensional. Going outside with bare feet I can feel that the day’s heat is a