cosmic ashes:
the yin to the yang of JAGGED STORM
I.
The night is dark but full of life: outside the glass windows,
colors dance across a veil of blackness—
a strange, eerie, magnificent kind of beauty that somebody
once looked upon a named,
aurora.
He flicks the strings on his old guitar:
the night is dark, but music fills it with life.
He dips his head and loves the feel
of scratched wood against his calloused
fingers.
She lets her hands fly across black and white keys—
chipped pieces of ebony that still paint beautiful sounds.
She dips her head and loves the feel
of smooth wood against her calloused
fingers.
Their voices softly intertwine
and fill this room with music both
high and pure, and huskily deep.
Trembles creep up her spine as they sing,
and the air around them is high-strung with endless
hope.
A snowstorm blazes on outside,
and wolves howl their grief to a waning moon.
But in this same night they will sing, and
may the dust and ashes of day be washed away
by the music of their
love.
By the nightside they will sing on, candlelight
flickering in a corner of the room. The shadows
swing with them, the winds outside lean in past
swaying trees as if hoping for a glimpse inside.
And in the sky, the lights dangle, their beauty far
surpassed.
II.
Her ethereal heartbeat
(flutter, flutter)
that was doomed to die before it lived,
and only once ever rose to the glory of drums
(thump, thump)
beneath the bright light of his eyes.
III.
The paths are hid! The way is lost!
The city’s gates are shut and broken;
Cast down, ruined, and long-forgotten.
Its songs but echoes in rock and sand,
Its stone and marble but ashes and dust!
The paths are hid! The way is lost!
The river rose one wint’ry night
And swept away the towers high.
The sun and moon now both do not rise
where proud banners that hour did fall.
The paths are hid! The way is lost!
Somewhere ’neath these currents wild,
lost mem’ries, souls and loves may lie;
but silent waves and whispering leaves
will not give up their trove so easily.
Who should walk these roads again?
Who should raise these fallen halls?
Who lives now that would dare to come
And claim this curséd throne of doom?
Ask of the winds: “Whither went those
Few who lived?” They say only,
“Onwards to death.”
IV.
YOU ARE READING
Ephemeral Obscurity
Poetry❝I have never been myself as much as I have with you and all these words.❞ A beginner's attempt at poetry, exploring a few different forms and voices while trying to convey loss and beauty. Organized alphabetically, so feel free to read in what...
