This darkness is thicker than darkness should be.
It coagulates like blood, and warms like wine, and is harsh bitterness instead of snow-flake sweetness. It lingers on my lips like threads of wire woven between the flesh and whiskers.
I cannot sing here. The words gather on my tongue. My throat is raw with the scratch of moth wings, and butterfly wings, and wasp stingers. My song, my words, my language, flutters in my form like magma dances beneath the brightness of a star. Each time, each time, every time, I try to open my mouth the wire threads grow thorns (and more thorns, and more thorns) until I am dripping silver rain.
My silver, my blood, the weak dregs of my light, do not brighten the darkness as they should. Nothing grows where they fall. There are no horses, no foals, no mountain peaks tickling my belly, no crowns rising on sunflower stalks to fall upon my brow.
The darkness reigns.
And if I am flying in it, another stitched together thing in the darkness, it is a movement that has no direction but agony. Somewhere a leopard is snarling, and wailing, and picking clean the bones of her future kills. I know she is there, my heart knows she is, but I cannot hear the wonder of her roars and taste the iron on the wind running through the ribcage of her kill.
I wonder if she is woven shut with wire and caught in a net of blackness as I am..
I wonder.
My feathers do not sing as I move though the darkness (am I moving? am I? am I? am I?). Perhaps there was always a wish in my belly weighing me down like a stone blotting out a pillar of flame. Perhaps this darkness, the one that is not mine, is the wish.
Maybe I have to find the golden language of that wish.
And so I look for gold in the coagulated blackness with my throat that is raw with a song I cannot sing. I look.
And I look.
And I look.
And I look.
And.
I.
Look.
It coagulates like blood, and warms like wine, and is harsh bitterness instead of snow-flake sweetness. It lingers on my lips like threads of wire woven between the flesh and whiskers.
I cannot sing here. The words gather on my tongue. My throat is raw with the scratch of moth wings, and butterfly wings, and wasp stingers. My song, my words, my language, flutters in my form like magma dances beneath the brightness of a star. Each time, each time, every time, I try to open my mouth the wire threads grow thorns (and more thorns, and more thorns) until I am dripping silver rain.
My silver, my blood, the weak dregs of my light, do not brighten the darkness as they should. Nothing grows where they fall. There are no horses, no foals, no mountain peaks tickling my belly, no crowns rising on sunflower stalks to fall upon my brow.
The darkness reigns.
And if I am flying in it, another stitched together thing in the darkness, it is a movement that has no direction but agony. Somewhere a leopard is snarling, and wailing, and picking clean the bones of her future kills. I know she is there, my heart knows she is, but I cannot hear the wonder of her roars and taste the iron on the wind running through the ribcage of her kill.
I wonder if she is woven shut with wire and caught in a net of blackness as I am..
I wonder.
My feathers do not sing as I move though the darkness (am I moving? am I? am I? am I?). Perhaps there was always a wish in my belly weighing me down like a stone blotting out a pillar of flame. Perhaps this darkness, the one that is not mine, is the wish.
Maybe I have to find the golden language of that wish.
And so I look for gold in the coagulated blackness with my throat that is raw with a song I cannot sing. I look.
And I look.
And I look.
And I look.
And.
I.
Look.
It all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some destined end.
