… posted because new content makes the world go ’round. Or the sky eye. Whatever. I was drunk and wrote this last night. I don’t think it’s appropriate to publish it anywhere, so it can go here and maybe my journal or some sh*t. Whatever.
Homing
Sky wheel glared down upon the place I stood.
The field was color—joy—expressed in perfume.
Neither it nor its companions knew my name,
no more than I knew theirs.
But the winds that ruffled my feathers,
played with my gown of purity and peace,
and spoke to me of living:
where energies moved as they pleased,
bringing heat, cold—whatever they desired.
The distant mountains were sharp and new,
but those blue mountains I knew
were from days before flight,
when Father saved me from the precipice, bidding I take care.
The land was mud, the world a globe of planning—
a time I’d never see again.
That care, that love, that gentle removal from danger’s edge;
my tiny feet kicking as he held me,
the other at the table.
Voices rejoining their air-dance,
as I nestled against that beloved breast.
Now the land is soft and quiet.
The mountains are worn from time’s gentle courtship.
Where the flowers should bloom, green remains—
the colors are gone.
The house we built has crumbled;
only scholars could find its footprint now.
Rolling, the hills remind me of footing—
a place I knew I could not take.
Although I tried,
shedding my wings to ground myself
in the land I’d first touched down.
I traded a piece of sky for the soil in my soul,
and my heart for a forbidden vow—
a price too high for such small transgressions,
made heavy with eternity.
My heart was moved in my innocence,
as they panicked, seeking for answers,
no longer knowing my worth.
The memories were unburdened—
I forgot the horses, the horizon,
the peace I had truly known.
Not like that other place,
where crystalline plants bloomed under my care.
Compassion was my undoing;
it revealed me in careless ways.
But rather than walk the land untouched,
I stood steady in things I somehow still believed in.
Is there more to recall?
More to trap my heart in painful barbs and snares?
Surely. But tonight, I’m trapped with longing—
when I sat before a basket of crystalline danger,
drew poison from the wounds,
and fire told me a name,
soft as a warm blanket,
as if I were more fragile than peace.
These sherds were a treasure,
a memory to lock and repeat,
to imprint upon beasts.
Repeatedly, this image must endure.
May the birds sing the tale
of when you said you would help me—
for all I had willingly chosen
to stay in hell.