A promise
is like wax-
at first it seems firm,
and honest and true,
but then you
lick it with fire,
and it melts
between your fingers-
scorching your skin
as it lines it
with cracks.
You lit the candle
that cast shadows
against my face-
and at first
I thought you
were giving me light,
sweet and unsoiled,
until you yanked
my fingers
over the
blaze.
Your promise
was like wax,
for at your first fire
it fused to my flesh-
and now I
am wax,
hardened yet weakened,
and if you look
closely enough,
you will see my
cracks.
If you look close enough,
you’ll be able to see the phantoms
swimming in my eyes.
Fear not, for I am not governed
by shifting shadows that whisper
impossibles against my skin.
No, I only house them,
and carry them on my cloak for all to see-
so that the world will know
my sin.
I was a child of the night, once-
long ago, I sunk into
the murk’s bitter embrace,
wrapping my arms around her
black heart and lifting it
lightly to my lips.
The shades were my sisters,
and poison was my toast,
and together we’d get drunk on toxic
sips.
I know you see the demons
dancing in my eyes, but they are dying beasts-
for I have closed my lids
and plunged them into putrid darkness.
I ascended my axe and lopped off their limbs,
leaving them to molder and rust.
My hands reek of wrongs,
but my armor is clean, and it gleams
like polished silver as my phantoms fade
to dust.
The labored groan of a defeated mast
heaves along with the sighing waves,
lamenting on the rising winds,
remembering a sun-speckled age…
releasing into a sea so vast
each base sorrow, thinned and skinned.
All is still…
Until…
Threads of wind slip through the boards,
dancing into a bare ballroom,
their feet slipping beneath a sheet of brine
as they whistle to a long lost tune.
A siren scream invites the fire
that waltzes across the purple sky;
the gods begin their drunken grumblings,
while the deck beneath their voices sighs.
Rain plays and pulls at tattered tarps,
laughing as it’s stolen by the gale;
a surge of sea embraces the bridge,
lingering behind to kiss the sails.
The chandelier, greened by the years,
staggers aimlessly along the beams,
the shouts and bouts of gods in feud
increase the tempo of flitting streams.
But a shadow swims beneath the ball,
angered by the noise and calls.
With claws of midnight he reaches slow
and scrapes the keel in one swift blow.
The party lurches…
The tempest trains his ear sideways,
the lightning pauses, the thunder stays,
the surf slips off the deck in fear,
the rain retreats, the winds still to hear…
All is still…
Until…
A low howl drips from the mast like wax…
so wrought with agony and crimson pain,
that it bends in submission to the beast below,
and offers up its wrists in chains.
The sea, reluctantly, stifles its cry,
and soothes its splinters with weeping swells.
The wind hums a mournful, gray tune,
and sprints across waves in a wistful spell.
Then with one last plea it sinks into the sea,
and the gods stand by in open-jawed awe,
wondering how their ball had gone so wrong-
wondering if it was they who prompted its fall.
The shadow smiles beneath a sea in torment
as it pulls the ship close to its chest-
“You’re lonely no more,” he whispers in velvet,
“Now sleep, my child. It’s time to rest.”
People ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers.
Maybe it’s our smell, or just the look of us-
the look that says we’ve seen things, dark things,
things that’d turn any normal man’s innards into pulp;
things that’d transform a soldier into a suckling babe.
People don’t take kindly to strangers.
People don’t take kindly to me.
They don’t even have to know my name, or where I hail from-
I’m a stranger, that’s all there is to it, and I have
destruction sewn into my cloak,
and misery slashed across my lip.
They’ll look, but not for long, and their eyes’ll find
sudden interest in the stones of the street,
and their whispers’ll carry into
uncharted territories, with uncertainty
weaved into their tones.
I’m a ghost to them, a phantom blotted with grime and blood,
here to haunt their way of life, to mark the dirt
with my suffering and sadness,
to make them like me. No, they think,
as they watch me from their windows. No, it can’t happen here. No, he can’t happen here. I’m a harbinger of what lies beyond their walls-
I am the absence of security.
But I’m not what they fear.
People ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers.
Maybe it’s the hardness to our jaws that outlines
a life of unseeable sights, or maybe it’s the shadows in our eyes,
the shadows that flicker against stony stares,
serving as a reminder that there is a hell.
People don’t take kindly to strangers.
People don’t take kindly to me.
There’s a mark on my map,
inked in oil and scratched in haste,
with a moaning mountain
scrawled beside it;
its peak laced in smoke
and dust.
There’s a line on my map,
drawn like a jagged smile across
the plains, eternally sneering
upon the compass,
daring it to falter and turn
its gaze.
There’s a sea on my map,
draped in rolling waves that peak
like summits, tempted to
swallow the earth
and drown the journey before it’s
begun.
There’s a chance on my map,
not rubbed in charcoal or sketched with quills,
but bleeding from beneath the
parchment, as if begging
the wanderer to become the
seeker.
I must be a faceless man,
for this cup I drink is brimmed with thorns,
and men with faces burn their lips
and choke on bloodied tongues.
I must be a faceless man,
drunk on venom and bitter blood,
and deaf to words that yank on flesh
and shrivel hides to oily sludge.
I must be a faceless man,
nameless like I was never born,
for men with names dole out their hearts,
and shed their skins for empty words.
I must be a faceless man,
for this dish I taste bites back with teeth,
and men with faces tuck their tails,
and rip at their bellies with rounded claws.
I must be a faceless man,
unbent and unbroken in a land of tears,
for faceless men must be the breakers
and igniters of the frozen years.
I remember soft silk
slipping between fingers,
and warm, honeyed words
blanketing the night.
I remember your voice,
your breath and sweet whispers…
I remember the eve
melting into the light.
We were fools, they will say,
stupid and witless in lust.
We rode our steeds into the sun,
numb as we withered to dust.
We were children, they said,
naive and callow in sin,
We sucked the venom from their words,
laughing as it stained our grins.
I remember green fire
licking at your screams,
and a blackened blade
that tore apart seams.
I remember your voice,
telling me not to fear…
I remember that lie,
because you aren’t here.
Can you see me
over here
in my little box?
I know it’s dark,
but if you squint,
and tilt your head,
and call my name-
I’m sure you’ll see.
Can you hear me
through the boards
of my little box?
I know they’re thick,
but if you knock,
and pry the wood,
and train your ear,
I’m sure you’ll hear.
Can’t you see me
flailing
in my little box?
I’m trapped, you see,
and there’s no
air here to breathe.
Why can’t you
see me?
Can’t you hear me
screaming
in my little box?
I’m scared, you see,
and my voice
is drowned in the dark.
Why can’t you
hear me?
A word
is a double-edged sword,
for it rings clear and true,
but stings with
a red smile.
Me? I am
no wielder of hammers-
I seek not to shriek rusted
blade against blade
beneath the shadow
of the gallows.
I deliver
my attack with callous lips
and loose my barrage
as grave silence
glowers on.
I am
loved by some, and loathed
by most, but my duty
beneath the blight
remains the same.
This battle
is not one of arms and axes,
but one of reading lips
and sometimes
reading minds.
I am
good at playing the part
of the fading ghost who
haunts abandoned
battlefields and
beds atop tombs.
They need
not see me, so long
as they listen, for
I forge and fight with
the deadliest weapon-
a word.
Stellular Scribe 