Cold

Cold

White as bleached bones, soft

as goodnight, whispering

leaves adrift as fox-fur,
falling clothes of trees -
suffered

not I, huddled in cotton dreams

shaking free as the chords

the notes

a melody so sweet, far

over the rooftops, creaking

forests sleep.
echoes over mountains along

burns and streams, 

the sea hums,
sounds from the deeps,
twittering birds migrate, mournful

bellows of whales beneath

a sky of swaying tides,
shiver bones, and breathe -

the chill is heavier, borne
discrete



With a burst of speed, we begin. Three quick steps and aloft, winging on updrafts of discovery and adventure. Is this Icarus' vice, or can I fly higher, further, still?

Story Writing Mode = Less Blogging I Suppose

Well, what is there? Again and again they ask questions of time, and I've no response. Time is slippery as shadows, as sure as blood in water - stop it, slow, if you may, you'll only gain bloodied hands. And you? Share your heart and I'll shed mine. Emotions, doctor, is it cancer then, this fire within? Only burning sin, killing your insides out. May it never continue so, but on I go, on I go, my breadbin into hell. What gains he who sells his very soul for a pittance of fool's gold? Nothing.
Please, distance as wind to wind, opposite walls of solitary prison. I can hear you think but not breathe, love but not sing, dream but not speak. If we shed these skins and skim the sky, fly not so high, dear, we're on Icarus wings. If must we fly so high, take me, and let's fall as one. How, how such wide eyes, Eckleburg? Green, then? Green as the american dream? Or dollars? Or icy green, on pine tree leaves, frozen in the frost of morning?

I cheated today. I finished some of my first chapter of NaNoWriMo. I didn't want the restriction of NaNoWriMo, but wanted the motivation. I longed to write a story, but not within the exclusive bounds of November, and I got a bit overexcited for the beginning of this one. This one is also different in that I'm co-authoring the endeavor. I'm already feeling the strain on my other writing and reading. It can't be helped, can it? Time to return to story writing mode...

Icarus

This is your fault. Can you expect me to pine after you when we never met? No, foolish... You've stirred the waters, and I no longer see my reflection. But when the mud settles, again I'll see this face, again I'll ask all the painful questions. Did you save me. hurt me, ask me bitter questions, salt my open wounds? I'm invincible, invincible in my isolation. Not your fault, not mine. But I've realized the rivers eternal only slide though and past me, and I cannot alter the course.

So, goodbye, goodbye, fly free, in the chrysalis I built for me.
And when your butterflying high, I'll watch my love soar free and die.
Icarus, your sin is mine.
I flew in pride too high, too high, and the sun I loved set my wings afire,
chastised do I fall.