I like the music a collision
Makes, it reminds me of fission
And that all things break along planes that are fissile.
But what good is just one note, harmony starts as a drizzle
Then becomes some discordant chord, a downpour
Of a hail storm beating the blade of a sword
Against the floor. Listen to it.
It’s modal waves vestigial, residual,
Decay rings out to sway
Podal and dactyl. It’ll resonate through the cochlear
Drum and oscillate the ilium. It’ll drown out every jeer
And those moments of loneliness and fear. All collisions, once they’ve grown
No windchime will be hanging quiet all alone.
Analeptic autumn air.
Golden disclets plunge and twirl,
to rest weaved and tangled in your hair.
With your facade peering out through fall’s veil;
I’d follow you anywhere.
Around the crook and past the kill,
up through the trees, to the lonely ridgetop
where cumuli accumulate
to cast their thunder off.
Our digits entwine,
our anchor at the icy precipice.
Up here, elevated
above our concerns below
we can pour out
our hopes and pains.
“I really need this to last.”
But as each day fades
the arc of the sun wanes
up out of their summer melt.
You can hear it creaking
through the cracks of the crag,
The weather will wither
To the Wills of Whales and Waves
There is a promontory of clear glass
that reaches out into the sea of drowned stars.
Washed up along its tideline
are the phosphorescent bones of the leviathans
whose blood and flesh were used
to spawn the dry world.
Some unsingable song from the deep
brought you to its edge where you found foundered
the heart of a living thing, old and forgotten.
When you took it in your hands
it beat a secret through you
and every cell in your body cried out
as they were transformed into bundles of nerves
that wove their filaments out
into the far reaches of the firmaments
and for a brief moment
you could feel everything in the universe
and its intensity set you ablaze.
The embers hung for a moment
like some alien candlelight vigil
until they were blown out by the cosmic wind
and the ashes claimed by the spiraling arms of the galaxies.
They looked everywhere for you
wading through high waters with their hounds,
clambering to the tops of the lonely peaks,
surveying the star-sprent reaches through astrolabes.
They built a lighthouse from obsidian on that promontory
and filled the Argand lamp with the powdered bones from the tideline,
hoping you would see the pylon’s forbidden glow
and return from the waves
on the back of some beast.
If one were to look out now
they would see a new star in the sea.