smokedragon

Quiet is the ache between steel and stone, a smile on the face of the most beloved, seen in passing like melting snow. The blood on his lips tasted like driving rain and old wood-smoke. The blind would have it otherwise, but truth is often muted reflection – faded outlines. What is, and what could be: mist and black glass. Many nights he did spend before that shadow mirror, drowning in its depths. It turns the heart on its head, bitter and reckless; courtesy will bleed despite all efforts. Clarity is the fine line between the refuge of faith and the howl of madness. Words only just audible weave through gnarled brambles, withered branches. The voices build; a cacophony of whispers filling the air. A rumble of thunder troubles dark clouds. Amid the ruins, bright shafts of sun fall upon him there. The lightest touch of an innocent step, emeralds left in their wake. Flowers and trees unfurl and run riot; they shade the mirror – cradle it in gentle frame. They curl about his bones,

Still is the forest but for small murmurs. Light-dappled green and gold, bejeweled: trilliums, pale elegance amid verdant couture. Soft moss may muffle my steps but disturb a dove, the sound of her wings sudden and transient in the dead-fall. The songs of others echo through the trees, songs in holy cathedral. Breathing in, I close my eyes: Evergreen, water, day-warmed blackberries, dusty and sweet. Brook stones shift under my feet as I stand on the narrow shore. I gather mushrooms and herbs, more wandering than gathering in honesty, little more. Though the sun moves overhead it feels ageless. One could almost forget one’s name; forget everything. I wouldn’t say a word. I wouldn’t need to. I would be endless. Evening falls: I sit before bright flames in elaborate hearth. Voices seem to echo - yours is the longest to fade. I gave up chasing it down shrouded halls and weathered ramparts. Sometimes it still brings a smile to my face. My mind makes its own ghosts, but yours is

Quick as a kill, quick as light…quick as night - ice forms on the lips; breath of mist and hoarfrost, winter’s grip is soft, dead and undeniable. Cloaked in musty leaves, a rotten apple grows sweetly fetid; earthy as the worms in its flesh, tawny and vermilion, crowned a king in pale mushrooms. We wait for the sun to rise high enough to not burn our eyes; the sun in our gaze, on the other hand, somehow never quite touches the snow in our shadows. We are ever chased by the moon through the dark; weaving through black tree fingers, its orange fox’s eye winking and bright. It disappears and reappears as we are wont. A wildish path of heather and spiraling brambles unravels; a dance - slender gridelin stems and bitter, piceous thorns. They catch at flesh, eliciting drops, little red jewels in a glittering string that burst upon the frozen ground like glass. We keep running; silent feet in chilly drifts, a trail of light steps soon vanishing. Rime-laced boughs conceal the heat of

Taking the reins I greet the dawn; the sky aches in its hazy cerulean, the sun, like the edge of a knife, cuts through the air and bleeds it vermilion. Slowly, the frost loses grip on the earth. Half awake I canter through fields, approaching the road; motion finally stirs my blood, my feet, tingling with life and shaking the chill. I'm on my way, naught but wagon ruts a guide. A fiery eye blinks on the horizon, the cold of the night fades; already, the temperature is rising. I pull my hood back - with the world I wait, the morning winds rifling my hair, caressing my face. Something in that sweet clear breeze is calling; I remember the smell of your perfume. Something in the emerald trees and in the earth tones of the fields makes me see your eyes - deep like wild pools, brightly shimmering and flashing. The sun paints the land: rolling verdant pastures become rusty desert; scents of sage and the heat of the day wrapping like a blanket. Drifting on through the rock and dirt, I