| Liminality |
| The last time I walked that path I nearly froze though the temperature hovered a degree or so above solidity, someone had forgot to tell the wind repossessing my clothes and the mist inundating my hair and me � No more will I listen to that deceitful breeze fraught with illusion, like a treacherous lover painting ghost birds against an eldritch sky: they hover, with cries more sensed than heard, gleefully oblivious to that anonymous power which, giving life, as carelessly lets them die. Each broad wing is very dark, solitary spectral birds drifting, drifting, asail on a sea of fog without a destination or even a compass: if they wait long enough the unclean wind will choose their next port for them, be it bog or quicksand: their very being defines impasse. Desperate for focus, straining at the thinned bodies, I blur, definition and identity lost in the whispering winds that echo back to me my soul in a rainbow of monochromatic hue: the mirror, in a moment of unaccustomed levity shares its dark humour in vague were�s and to be�s. Welcome to limbo, my friends: what do you think of the view? birds of death, is this the first time you have seen the spiritual debris of a living tomb? �tis cold, the forked ice � bitter Acheron centre-city burns into my heart � but your world is more clean your eyes pierce obscurity to the womb but all I will ever know turns on appearance, we have forgotten our past soul-shattered, all that remains is the pose and that won�t last. |
 |
 |
| � 2003 Kyle Altis. All rights reserved. |