At what point will my eyes stop revolting? Pushing moisture out instead of saving it to safeguard my sight? Tear after tear after tear they fall, droplets rolling of a dried leaf, the rain that falls before the dawn, like liquid crystals hanging upon a thatched roof.
I am afraid, fearful that this powerful feeling will decide to adhere to my dreams, forming a pond of sadness. each day they congregate, meeting between mustard colored pews, my fears being baptized in the rushing river within my veins. Why, then, do I feel the touch of the moon on my breast, the tides of truth washing over my memories, causing these sandcastles to crumble, and leaving unrecognizable ruins along the shattered shells.
Tell me, when will these tears stop falling? How many reservoirs must be drained before I accept this?
Vast lakes live within my irises, blotches of the depths, hiding the real treasures that have been lost to the abyss.
I am nothing more than a half-empty vessel, a handcrafted vase with etches upon its lip, thirsting for the wellspring, but only granted the spit of the clouded sun. And yet, each day I watch as water leaks, escapes from the pores; and my eyes, my shattered prisms, my scales of shadows and souls. They dare to revolt against the death that draws near to my shore, reminding me that the spirit is liquid at body temperature.
Next to the river bank, I awake
With the scent of death upon my brow.
Droplets shatter against the gray waters
As the ghosts of the forests lull over the drenched leaves.
Palms clammy, feet soaked in viscous mud
Eyes full of nightmares long forgotten
Staring into the ominous fog,
While the ripples guide souls to the crypt.
The granite rocks, lodged next to the split roots,
Soft earth ready to swallow
This river is uncharted,
Untouched by the wayward wanderer
Know where the delta lies,
Only accessible when the sun is gone,
Lost in the deep horizon.
The clouds come down,
to spirit away those who sleep in the woods
At the dusk,
Saying farewell in their final, frosted winter.
I watched a star fall from the ivory moon.
A lone streak connected the crater to my sullen cheek,
Tasting of dried tears,
with the shadow of winter cast upon my face.
“Are you up there yet?”
“Tell me, what is it like among the ancients?”
Here, on earth, it’s quiet. The abandoned homes still creak, the stream continues to fall through littered gutters, the snow still melts upon the bank,
And yet, only I am left to witness
These normal acts of nature
While you sit in God’s congregation hall.
My life without you has become a cruel painting,
hues and emotions are smelted together to create an internal impression; but,
as the vibrant canvas breaths,
I am suffocated by the lack of color in my own chaos.