311

There are dead sounds at the foot of this hill,
sounds entombed under ages of longing,
sounds that echo, soft, in the night-time chill,
dead cries ringing and bunching and thronging:
There is a web of blue light stretching forth;
at the foot of this hill, it ensnares me
in its weave of sound, its phonemic hearth;
it mutilates my mind, twists me, tears me:
I stood once atop; a stone tore me down,
lanced from the hot hand of a spurned lover;
her anger, it seemed, was a glowing crown,
a red aureole with a slight hover:
I fell back with a shout as the sun rose
in violets and orange, and the time froze.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s