Friday, November 24, 2017

The Departed One

I've left -
having climbed,
I reached the mesa.

Plateaued, I lay prone,
idly staring at
your silent body of stars
arched somewhere between
chaos and order.

My headdress was smashed upon arrival,
plumes crushed like trodden grapes, and everything has slowed.
Look not outside yourself  -
the seasons, eventually,
will catch up to all
the earth lays flat.

So Protectress, I tell you:
There's nothing left to perform here.
Your lights were pinched out by an approaching dawn
years ago.

Isn't it odd how
scattered planets are
extinguished by
more brilliant
set of circumstance?

Obliterated, nearly flattened,
these nights I've become a purpled and blackened ghost,
backhanded in the lips by happenstance.

Freely I contemplate how much of late
possibility removes itself from actuality,
like hateful siblings, they live far apart.
On this stage, nothing lasts but gathering distances.

At high-noon the dancers below
assemble outside their round rooms,
ready to enact their rites.

Earthbound, and still in the game,
with paint and buckskins
they will quake and rattle
their way
to a higher plane.