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  • rubyred

    take the ruby bridge above the blue waters, enchanted by the high-wheeling stars, pulled into an orbit of celestial cars. taste the sea, invent the horizon with your every step, and work to eke out from the stone some blood. for the intermetallic mixture of those faces, and the diamonds in the gardens as heavy as children, and the faces those faces make, flowers to the sunlight. you can walk down the aisles as the world grows around your ankles, and the ivy wraps around the lowest parts. breathe in the air, as the trees flirt with pollen, and the sun hints in glints, of a golden afternoon. o how they name you: seasonal passages, suchness of blood in your likeness, the healed wound of worship transacted unto the sky. copied and repeated, though you are not broken down. you are like those metals. upon those shores unnamed, they called you sonika-- they called you the angel of diamond-fire-- they called you shrinking violet. but I've never forgotten the name you earned and made up yourself, the one you only show others; the one you can't see.
    yet in your eyes there are suns born, so many of them, and there's music from heaven falling in your hair, hinting and glinting there. the air is warm, dry, and you're smiling. there's a certain nostalgia, mixed in with a swimming melancholy, which is sweet as light (in the right measure). aching can sometimes make its own sense, if we accept our double-mind we are one step closer to an unity. there is the hope, crystallic, which bends and curves and winds and twists,-- it rotates into all the dimensions, then rolls out, flat, unto an infinite regression. the suns twisting in your eyes, the fabric bunched inside, the shadows making everything else real. and here is that shore you still wander. barefoot. and there are the cliffs of the rocks falling into the sea, and there are waves clear on the other side of the horizon, coming towards me. I have no real answer, there is only this weird silence, and the wind which is the silence somehow, coming over me, touching me with the hands of a ghost. one ghost out there. that must be it.
    that must be how everything works, just the two of us. a diarchy made in love, following gravity unto the pit, where love burns everafter in the volcanoes and caverns... next to the cove of hissing water where the fire and the water meet. there is ice-like crystals studding the rocks, black rocks which on their very tips turn white with a sharpness, a violence. there is just two of us, and this love of broken parts that we play with, our words carried into the sea and the salt which hovers above these reflections. the sea is our home, and our prison, and our release; as wave by wave we watch as we're eaten by its teeth, shores of our own there beneath the glass star-fixtures which power these empty spaces. but they're not really empty. and nor are we, nor these voices that come from within.
    there is a meaning, one which we seem to know without knowing,-- it guides our conversation by silence, and like rails upon which we steady ourselves, it becomes the glue which eventually completely stops us. and so we are rapt, intrigued, and we are firm beyond any knowledge... the truth and the love have united. the being that we've sundered has once again awoken! and there, like we always expected, there is the constellation and the marriage in the sky, weaving in orbit, ice and light. it is wonderful, how amethystine and burnt-to-black the sky is, waving like a dark fluid before me. it is a drop upon each eyelid, and sight from blindness. it is more than we expected.
    and over the bridge again, back from where we were. the red light of the stone mixing with the sky pulled over me. the architecture of innocence, presentiment of an architect building with love, and only love. in this i see what cannot be seen, this frame hangs and I stay marveling at these many wonders, bright as lightning at midnight. this is the eternality changed, and the sacrifice of days to the calendar. but looking back it is good. and going forward it is even better. that brings us now, here, and home. doing what we couldn't do. loving even braver. these are our senses pooled into the eerie-- and the mist which enshrouds our feelings, and clasps with spiderwebs to our thoughts, and eats and eats like the worst rust. we take it in, our mouth and hearts and our eyes.
    pain-- this pain and this poison-garden of emotion. little shoots blossom, and grow til their tips begin to ravel. little leaves poke through the sides, and the sunlight beckons. I watch the crystals swallow the light, and grow from the edge of space. is it salt, or glass, or some dark substance tinged with that purple sky? again, she smiles, and I'm smiling too. there is no time, and we can understand perfectly that nothing is wrong, and nothing ever was. pain by pain, stranded through our brows, and our lips, and our faces. and yet it's a sweet pain, it reminds us we're living, and that we're loving. because-- how beautiful, even more beautiful because we have allowed it to be broken. and then we learn the secret art of 'how to make it mend'. like the metals all facing each other, conscious, superconscious intermetallic mixtures, alloyed and unalloyed alike, breathing and radiating and expanding and contracting. breaking, shattering like light or a bee sting to my dark countenance. and before me stretches the sunburnt land, unnamed, and the answer somehow somewhere hung in the mist.

  • #2
    The flame that burns
    but is not consumed
    the web that is laid
    upon the wound
    Ruby Slippers
    Kansas heel


    • #3
      this is fing incred if one should pass reading it should be this


      • amenOra
        amenOra commented
        Editing a comment
        I appreciate the comment! This one sorta drove me crazy, took a lot out of me but I am glad to share. glad you enjoyed!

    • #4
      I love the way your poetry rolls me.