Valley talk

They said, there, a door grows.

There, at the end of this valley,

Lays the end of all things closed.

They said there; spirits of fire,

Left a boy mangled

From his pyre, dangled

inside the flame that knows.

 

Moonlit quivers walked aside me,

Upon embers of old with the rock

cast in tears drowning to themselves.

A molten mirror came sight in that rock,

To show the night that knew not the stars

and constellations that know us ourselves

but Braille left untouched.

And in the quietude of unsettlement

amid the red rivers gyre,

Liars hid from the flame

pooling black-
A mantle rankling,

A child’s song;

-“I am cold”-

 

I walked the valley pass.

Listened to each leafs turn

In the drenched caves ears

that keeps time;

An overture to a heart beat,

Rising to the spires,

Veined into the volcanic rock.

Every crack an admission

Of the pulse,

Of a boy’s desolate fears.

A dance of mime;

In the aperture of crimson heat

Unfurling child’s desires,

Pained through the manic walk.

Every step the fission

Of the trust,

Gone in the wings of tears.

 

The night: a distant sail clinging to its rigging,

Undone in skeletal beauty surfacing from skin

A quiet myth to whisper from the grave-
The patience to believe in nothing.

And from this baroque of silence;

Salient this valley converged in another,

And a shadow of its cave,

Plunged and swayed-
Down.

In the stories and lives

of those that stole,

What he never knew.

 

They said the door was his fire.

An umbilical chord to the valley prophecy,

that left the silhouette of flames

In the kiss of his crazed eyes.

They said the red heat cries

when he becomes its flame,

Like the demise spread

when his sacrifice shed

him to be the keeper,

Of this night.

Ageless and mindful;

He remains

Their spirit.

 

In a chest lying deep

In burnt faces of his flesh;

A sonorous cackle

of a lone bone,

Fidgets restless in bedlam.

In the cask hidden

To his heart on the periphery

Of each echo sung from breath.

For the wish that never came.

The eye to a gem.

The peridot that glowed

In all the valley homes,

Grew dim.

 

They say he never sleeps.

That fear was his father,

Loneliness his mother,

Ardor a brother-
For giving him this name,

He can’t spell-
But will always keep.

 

They say too much.

To keep us away.

A tale. An allusion.

To keep us from him.

Shut eyed in smile.

Naked on his floor.

Innocence was his sin.

The tears sloping his skin;

Confuse him to blow on again

and begin the valley requiem.

 

Too alone to all the secrets he shadows-

 

A boy does dream

While sand smothers heat;

A boy does awake,

Still as the bone caught in his chest

And the inferno we see and hype

Is but an aurora of the cold chill,

Of a broken bone.

Left alone-
To endure the burn

of those that turned him for that stone,

Into a boy who wakes to the cold of death

in a cave of fire to sing to the night:

Tempt us to know a truth,

Within a door of fire.

 

Exodus and an abandoned soul

But not when abandoned to itself.

 

I walked back the valley pass

Through a night of stars,

I looked up from above

and saw more valleys

merge and wander

with the solace of

fossilized roots.

The night and land

came to be one

Panning headlong

Until in me sang

-‘I am cold’-

Then did I know,

The cruelty of

what we are

As what

we have made,

As man.

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