I would argue that life is most
rife when all is still, because
quiet itself can be such a thrill —
take that moment when your
heartbeat skips, or in the
shuddering seconds of
a passing eclipse, like when
a forgotten dream settles
in splendidly and you’re
left suspended
in serenity.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Oh, way of twisting root,
snarling beneath my feet,
serpentine it looped the vine
that caught me underneath.
Oh, way of groaning bridge,
creaking across the glen,
it mumbled as I tumbled
from the here until the then.
Oh, way of weary drifter,
carving through the cliffs,
long the road and strong I strode
on legs so sore and stiff.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
So it was all over before it began,
but out was never an option —
and the storm I saw ripening the sky
summoned hasty caution.
So it was all over, the dream undreamt,
and I woke a weary stranger —
unwelcome and bereft of claim,
my future soaked in danger.
So it was all over before it began,
and now I face my fate —
accompanied by madness,
in the hurricane I wait.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
The dreamers — they
all lie in wait,
backs arched to meet
the swollen sky.
Sparrows buzz about
their heads,
singing sweet, dead
lullabies.
The dreamers — they
refuse to wake,
eyes pinched against
the stretching dawn.
Sparrows peck against
their lids,
until the stubborn
sleeper yawns.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Upon the night I soar unafraid,
for I was destined to taste the sky.
Armored in scales, I ascend unswayed;
on the back of wind and wings, I fly.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Such sweet melody,
unchallenged by time and tear —
so is love’s caress.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
We bend our backs to the silver tide,
to the tide that turns the years —
the tide for which the old gods died
and wrung war out of tears.
We turn our eyes to the roiling night,
to the night that never ends —
the night in which we taste the blight
that in our dreams transcend.
We hone our ears to the coming song,
to the song that spans the land —
the song for which we must be strong,
for the prophecy so planned.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
There’s anger in red, at least, that’s what most will say.
Red is anger, fury, fire and brimstone.
It’s lust and violence.
Red is raw and reaping energy, the solid and the faint, the systematic and the chaotic.
But red, this red —
this complete and utter embodiment into red,
drowning, choking, becoming.
This red is not angry.
It’s acceptance.
Acceptance of our mortality, acceptance of the inevitability of drowning.
It’s warm but not blazing, unhinged but not fury.
This red is becoming. It’s hard and soft and loud and quiet —
but not angry.
I could poke my metaphor stick at red for hours.
I could un-turn it and repaint it and evolve it into some great symbol of
the telling faults of humanity’s ignorance to becoming.
But it’s red. And it’s not angry. And that’s
really all I have to say.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
He’s a boy with a ball and a compliance in his eyes.
Youth, it seems, is wasted on the young.
Here we have a boy with a ball, and a plaid sweater, and a compliance in his eyes.
He is young, his face round and doughy, his hair curly, his fingers sausagey.
But he is not young.
There is a compliance in his eyes.
Youth, it seems, is not wasted on the young but stolen by the old.
Here we have a boy in mourning and he doesn’t know it.
His elders do not know it.
For they are the ones who dressed him in that plaid sweater and placed a ball in his arms and told him to stand.
He is staring at them with a compliance in his eyes, and a passiveness on his lips, and a naivety under his chin.
He is not playing, he is posing, with a ball in his hands and a plaid sweater on his arms and a compliance in his eyes.
He is a boy in mourning, and I mourn for him.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
turning, writhing
not constricting, but inhabiting, assuming
a serpent, orange as the early sun
a woman, pale as the withered toes of a corpse
her face, her expression
poised and pursed
with eyes that see everything and nothing
hair stricken by electricity, turned to straw
sprouting from her scalp
she seems vaguely disappointed with the serpent
that coils her neck, her wrists, her waist
tribal, territorial, dominant
it does not faze her
she is performing a ritual, one that she’s acted out
a hundred times now, and it’s dragging custom to her
now
her brow, arched on stilts, thin and fast as a
runner, a dark, demanding frame to her eyes, her
eyes that see everything and nothing
I feel upset, angry, confused at the woman
why must she go on not caring?
she is the most powerful, steely-faced woman in the
room, she adorns a snake, she commands her art,
and she doesn’t care
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 