Squeezing the breath out of your soul,
night-tide comes crashing down,
crushing the shell of your waking shore,
your daydream castle;
You sink to the bottom of the rising stars,
sky-black leaving soot in your palms,
ink stains left out in the open,
to dry with the morning;
Darkness shifting its shape,
turning dreams to day to dread
feathers to fear, far far out
on the sea among the solitudes.
When thunder shakes open
the window to your mind
you tremble with rumbling,
those noisy ideas,
those clamouring thoughts,
which build up in dry hours
to flood the lightning sky
to fill all the space,
to climb and claim the atmosphere,
fulfilling their destination
in entering the world
In thunder you keep silent,
in torrents you stay still;
lingering in rushing streams
but in quietude you speak.
(First published on Twitter.)
There might be moss growing between your fingers
as you hold still the world;
holding your breath against the fern
while catching thoughts from ivy groves,
holding your cheek to the rocks
while catching waning light in your lashes;
as the world holds still your being,
the moss grows unto your soul.
—
(Writing this in anticipation of my little camping/hiking trip.)
I’ll be hiding in your window frame,
between glass and sleep and world,
keeping out the clouds,
while mulling over the spices of beginning twilight,
treading the sunset red to berry wine;
I’ll be awake
when you close your eyes against the night
as drawing curtains over consciousness;
I’ll be there to keep watch along the stars,
sprinkling their sparkles atop your dreams like cinnamon gold.
Blowing aside the ghosts of clouds,
we sail the sky of lace;
in faraway thoughts
and nearby books,
travelling the silent straits
of night, of dawn, of dreamland glass;
all out of rain and all in for high gales,
wanderers of unmapped globes,
trailing dictionary entries
as gently as fingers on ancient maps;
all for the wonders and all without trace,
as softly as fog over coastlines,
dissolving on your tongue.
Do you miss me
when I write,
slipping under the cover of pages,
disappearing
behind a wall of words,
in the split second
for which I cease to exist
while turning myself into letters,
billowing smoke of ink,
seeping through the fading fabric
of the universe in eternal midnight;
do you miss me when I write?
starfishskies 