| the myth of footsteps |
| from the footsteps of the primeval Kalahari down through obscure valleys, deepened in their mythological origins by bales of mist that aimlessly drift between the shores, caressing the hidden ruins, etched like Bible passages into stone, immortally into the cliffside, ancient red rocks haunting the bell-towers, and the medicine house, and the Makahri, and the Palisades, a subtle pulse coursing like black water tracing the evolution of the depraved metaphor, the madman's last redemption, the illusion of being halfway home, a place the madman knows all too well, the bell-tower from which he reads his manifesto, in all its fallen glory, shaken voice ringing in every cardinal direction vacant falsehoods echo off the black water the rain speaks disinterestedly of symphonies it has broken, weathered away, the delicate harmonies swelling and falling with the rising tides, the gravestones long since covered over with unforgiving currents, stealing from them their place in the world they know. mist-cloaked whitecaps purr and low as they strangle the creeping-vines, half-awake in their apathetic nihilistic paralysis, the tortured remnants of divided light. the pilgrimage gains momentum turning from the sullen red rocks, silently watching over the ruins as they lie in fitful slumber, the gatekeepers, their names lost to history, stand resiliently against the rolling thunder. the rolling bales of mist shake this vision to its core. darkness at last descends, its velvet cloak stifling the cries resounding off the dark waters below, drinking slowly of the emaciated reflections subsisting on the still night air, the mist rolling back across the valley river one last time, the hollow sounds of footsteps echoing from deep inside the frozen ruins. |
| elegy for the wild roses |
| Here, where roses grow wild in the thick of the night, impervious to the cold, and indistinct in the glowering moonlight, its fingerprints threading their way about the landscape leaving their indelible marks on the soft ground, rivers gently turn the tides (or so it would seem, and so they have lulled themselves into the comfort of believing) Polaris glimmers, a faint and distant spectacle, a hypnotic dream from which the river is slow to wake A veiled halo of mist gathering round the North Star, bitterly obscuring its benevolent rays - the night-hardened mist, its contempt for the wild roses evident in every pillar of light resounding off the river, a cascade of prismatic divided light, thrown from the whitecaps, perfectly formed in the stiffening breeze. hourly, the disheartened bells chime a low and vacant chime to remind of the approaching first light, an ordeal from which this tortured frame of mind may never recover. |