Seperation. Love. A Gate to Hell. For the Color the World Contest. |
Light splices the knotted branches of the willow, With the world having shifted, Shifted colour And with it some strange sensation too. Even at 2am when the sky is so north That the blue daze of your eyes Might become the dazzle of the Nordic Lights, It is as if the earth is a protruding belly, Brooding over its carefully stowed away Baby. Our home on the hill is at the top. And you are flushed, warm, Smiling on the edge, By the picket fence we put up In a parody of an old film. We are captured in that film. Our lives Like scarlet carsons. Such a veil is over our eyes It feels like only we exist. The ground is iron and we shiver, Shiver like rain As it slips from the pine needles, unable To hold on any longer to those tiny fibrous fingers. We are isolated. Alone on our blue hill. Even the birds lull their gypsy song beyond our world. If this were all, I would smile always. If it was, that we could never leave, Then I would just be. The corpses of my mind would never stir In this iridescent light of a land steeped in the archaic. And the antediluvian alacrity of my doubt Would remain in this stillness Where the black yew points up towards The eternal blue. How I wish that I would never have to walk Past the white picket fence Past the place where you stand, face to the wind, Face in the sunlight, Past you… and through the gate to hell. |