let us drown the Arcadia
So excited to announce that “Throughout our dark minds” has found a new nest on Spillwords Press. I am beyond thrilled to share this news here.
Dreams entwined, Dreams throughout false silence, Silence, a dark inscribed, Silence, a tyrannical void, Void of fierce gasp, Void of reddened wounds, Wounds that starve under snow
When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
When thy heart withers at unborn tears,
Beyond the dressing of the sea, condemned
By the forthright waves that wallow sails
And willow them too, no more from a valley dale,
The rivers that reflected the moon
That dream for light to chill the dell
And when among the intone, it broods and dwells,
The everlasting song, thy unrest that shines the wells,
That laid the dirge of the last sight,
With unrest from the earlier time (which is change),
With the lining, alive, above a river of dead…
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And I will wake from frail calls, lonely, enkindled by the breeze. I will wake in silent hope that glares its rays upon a sere trunk, As gently a shadow passed through that made me say of this Podunk, “Alone, brighter than the starlit partings, tides you a dream
And I rest my hands on the twilit moorland on the river’s expanse as I plea “For the love of God!” in a tunneling light, haunting laughter.
It is in the beige evening by the willows and a café restaurant with the golden leaves and their shards on the grounds, covered in a cleansed rain. It is in the illumination of shatters that broke beyond the pale sky that not only writhes among itself, but will be only among a frail sight like memory, a seed into the dead fruit of tree.
As I touch the river that trembles upon my weak sunlit torrents upon a gentle lick of lilac, And I shiver upon the pale wisteria of the eventide like a wounded deer, For I wonder upon the dark lavender skies, and their cracked gentle weeping rivers That glint upon the surface below the Acrylic golden trees, and their blossoming tormented thunders
I feel the strangeness of the fire arose from the bejeweled brooks, and faded, golden rivers, strung by the heat, I wander as the ocean meets the shore and I go into the peaks of the world
The pomace piled on the path of rain, And we were on the dim stones and bloodroots And stamped, feeding fleurs de lotus; The moon pardons in a red silence
Perfume loring, turning, hedged to the twitching, to the crying moon like sutler, silk drowns muses flesh and bone, stitches on fatty quilts, wanting warmth, muttering, muttering through whispers, begged by praying hands, I hate this place.
And I pray, inclined to the retired hues of sandhills, The moon had lowered its light to my hands, As though I was passed by its shadow, never forgotten, When the dark dusk covers the squill, a pack of doctrines Laid memory in sight, emaciated by the mercy, The cries caressed my overlapped palms to the words I impart As these alone could not touch me.
it’d fade away as a facile scar, And blood from a gentle sea.
I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls The northern river kneels, beating pearls, As the shawl darkens in the ghoul of silence in the wind.
Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone, Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set, Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again, That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland
A lit flame upon the stitched rag of shore, Which pales upon the blossoms of a winter rose, I think of a frail dream with Greek souls and song, That slightly breathed through the muted shore.
The dripping willows through the fragility of the dream Makes the numb candles point to a dead fortnight Surrendered to the blinding rivers that I would soon forget In this winter dream; where no leaf crosses the river, Where no dream is upon the weak bough above the sea
Shines above, the light that finds The sea’s protest and the dream of a wildflower, Where the trees of death were made with patted seeds
The meadows winded from gold, As the dawn of the early day sets To the death of the gale
And when the shadowed sea slicked, The dead moon of the sea was watchful, And in its glare, with thy dead streams, Lapped once with earthly stars, And there birthed the era to be