Shan Ellis
BereftSomewhere beneath
intertwined in solaced limbs, we lay breathless in anticipation. Sleep succored iambs, sweetened ripened fruit which plopped undignified from breaking bows hung with weight of maturity. Awoken, tenderness of gently placed kiss nurturing to life deft reverie darkness ululating. In tranquility souls although lost wondered fortunately between roots nourishing and replenished found whole whilst bereft Before the End
I’ve never been one for goodbyes.
They resonate like welling caves in the pit of my stomach, echoing in the hollows of my ribs, clinging in symbiosis to lips, plated tight reticent to let them escape. I’ve much preferred farewell, or adieu past tense, with a soft kiss which leaves with warmth and memory which sparks a smile in dark times. The finality of the word, seven letters two syllables, hook line and bated breath, ripples ceaselessly in a tangible place out of reach. This is goodbye, this earth is too parched to plant a seed, too barren to support life, too wasted to cultivate. Where once, an oasis stood now a dust bowl dance of death. And there is nothing I can take with me apart from the knowledge that I overcame. Genesis
Silence reverberated after the storm,
a quiet acquiescence, particles of life itself trickling down an open palm through closed fingers of thought. Murmurs of past ghosts brushed Infant like, lost in the dark of vacuum as if searching for a symbiotic mother, some reason unknown for weary travel to cease. In the fireweed below long dead present tenses stirred shifted by the audacity of the visitor, an audience of one empowered with vision or delusion, Machiavellian ideals of justice It quietened after lightening passed the watcher blinked non-plussed with the beauty of the dawns gentle kiss. Ignorant of unfurling petals between her toes. When we learn to listen
There is a lyric, somewhere,
lost between the altruism of truth and hope. I saw a man today, crepe paper skinned encased in an ancient armchair. Twinkle in his eye, from his lips came a century’s memories in a blink of an eye. His nurses laughed as stories of his long forgotten brothers in arms melded with grandsons and a wife Twenty years gone still remembered with a tear. His family grieved as he clutched that telegram from a Queen he’d served with his youth. Blinded by age, not seeing the vibrant truth that sat, in an oversized cardigan before them. His soul as clear as the day he squalled from his mothers thighs. There are truths, and Truths and lessons and miracles and hope. Where do you look? There is a lyric, somewhere, lost between the altruism of truth and hope. |
Id
Closed the door of self
disappeared into luscious delicious darkness where I was no longer classified by colour intelligence, conformity or creed. Mirrored walls pleaded innocence or ignorance, in that nitrate reflective all was equal, undisturbed, virginial. Elongated stretch on downy neutrality where particules travelled slowly in waves reminiscent of the grass that grew mid-summer along the burgeoning bilingual slopes of my mountain. No concern here behind pinked eyelids, enraptured in thrall silence and verdant growth. Recognition and recollection are one and the same some times you walk with me and then I blink Hold your position
Open mouthed, salivating,
unforgiven words. Passed in silence. Room spin, raw throat spottled spittle depravity. Clenched jaw, head high undermined. Formidably uncrossing pale legs juncture and crevice yearns. Broken glass sickly remnants of whisky dribbles half-heartedly. Listless kiss regrets, double-jeopardy jumped. Unfurling luscious betrayal wafts ruffling, tempting. Open mouthed, salivating; discarded. Thirty-four. Black
Breath held, beyond strain,
swallowed by chryobursts of pluming purpled darkness. Heartbeats pulsing, beneath skin, drawn so taught even the carrion crow can’t pick to the bone. One blind second, where the sun’s reflected rays all focused on this illusion created, all the glass tumbled down upon them in a nightmarish daydream. This moment of clarity, where my bare feet bled for those who had nothing, and the crimson pool flowing from shattered dreams bled onto the pavement. Tribute poppies for he who passed by. This is not justice, redemption or holy in the name of any false god. Somewhere behind the thudthud of blood pounding, a child cries. One of those shrieks of disbelief closing with a wail of disparity. Frozen, still, helpless, I hold her hand as the toll in her chest ends and she is free. The pavement cracks and nothing means a thing any more. |