If I could cross the distance, I’d show you a world of magic. We would listen to the tinkle of fairy wings beneath the sundering roars of dragons. We would wander down trails carved from the age old stone of mountains with peaks housing mythical creatures and the ancient miners of the deep earth. The woods would spiral out in a cacophony of mystery, beckoning us deeper into the vastness of the land. We would sip tea with the pointy eared ones with immortal eyes, play checkers with the bridge dwellers, dance wildly beneath the tops of mushroom villages and their pixie residents. We would hold hands, smile, and drop down waterfalls where the rocks have been tumbled smooth, their jaggedness run down over ages of gentle pressure and the tender ministrations of a thousand children creating a playground straight from the planet.
If I could cross the distance, I’d show you eternity above. The most lovely of pink hued edges wrapping across a sun of glossy stained glass against the vibrancy of blue. Soon the sky dancers would spark into existence as so many millions of eternal fireflies placed on a black canvas. The moon would climb out of it’s slumber to grin and translate the inkiness of night into a soft violet hue. Wolves would howl in somber songs of love, crickets would chirp their worship, and owls bathe the world in their questioning symphony.
Against the night, I would lay you down in the softest of grass. We would wave excitedly at the luminescence of our heaven bound ancestors as they rained their glow down on us. Our fingers would become paintbrushes as we connected their souls from the infinity above to each other as we painted portraits and fantastical creatures into the night. As the dark deepened, we would wrap ourselves in each other, merging as we bathed beneath the softness of infinity and the gentle eyes of the universe loving it’s children. We would stare into each others eyes and the moment of climax would break the hold of our bodies over our souls. Our cries would match the wolves and the entirety of existence would freeze for a moment of purity, ecstasy, and innocence.
If only I could cross the distance….I’d take you there.
Hail and rain beat the red off the tin barn roof. Thunder stutters while the salted tears of angels loosed from cream raiments pour onto the ground so much as snow stacked too early for the season. Apocalyptic droplets at the end of days that have run into themselves. Greed piled holiness tramping through the beautiful “could have beens” as the doomed masterpiece of the hopefully broken trod heavily across the land.
Trampled, trampled beneath the weight of heaven collapsing. Soaked, soaked in the dreams of all of those that once knew the direction they sought to follow. We let this happen. We let the monsters in and bred them in our hearts to be beggared, then sold off to the lowest bidder. We let this happen. We set fire to the oceans of life and love until their ashes drifted haphazardly across the ruins of our world. We let this happen. We decried the openness and jubilation at our fingertips to rejoice beneath the sun or moon-clad sky as free creatures wandering the magic that their brethren the stars choose to sparkle upon us. We let this happen. And now we rejoice in the blistering misery of our own defeat.
In the gasps of our failure, we can find ourselves. We are the dust of ancient suns decayed into life. We can reveal our nuclear radiance that would bless the entirety of time with an essence of gratitude and beauty so bright that it would shine into the endless void of the universe as a testament to what grew here. What fought and bled and lost and won and cried and mourned and shared and thrived and moved and wished and laughed and cheered and hoped and dreamed here. The lost will be brought into the welcoming arms of house and home as new families are born of that most primal and powerful light, love. Smile through tears most special ones, we stand at the cusp of all and nothing, let your eyes see the mysteries beyond, glimpse our eternal everything, and all that we had inside of us.
Hold each other close, and whisper your final breaths to those dearest. Our hour of despair and our hour of most compelling beauty comes now.
Spacious and widely set are these woven walls stinging nettles wrapped firmly around whipcord center a promise of pliable willow branches, carefully soaked switches cut green, bound in beautifully colored leaves thick with thorns. Laced with the fabric of breath, desire, mystique, keeping the luminescent beyond– –beyond.
However, in those laced moments that the air stirs first languorously, then rising to delight in how it can twist and whirl a joyful movement of shifting scents breeze spraying aside the curtains they, no heavier than dreams. Rolling across the stones laid intricate with care drifting to cross the lone pond. Glassine and undisturbed as puddled silver thickly magick and deeper than deep can be known– –as the air quenches and remakes.
Where tendrilled branches cast ripples, serpentine gashes play at being rivulets of liquid cutting once pristine layers on which reflections lay. Alive and shedding mirrored skin, sloshing possibility and promise as ancient hearts cast aromas in the air, only as decayed wood left to rot can. Dust and brittle powdering husks broken down from their heights to furnish food and fuel that the next generation might cast ramparts of growth riding high on the bones of the Old.
Silently they sit. Gazing down at the scarred and skittering pool, beaming hope in darkly radiant intensity from behind eyes set deep with focus. Reflecting, and wishing fitfully, that as it calms, they will find relief from their personal tempests peace through the restoration of waters returning to their unblemished state.
A cauldron of insight, slickly metallic and alluring where they might at last catch sight of their foes, drag them into the shaded glen, bleed them onto the stones, leave their corpses ragged and torn, that they can be reborn with the changing days.
Blissfully drift into their thoughts unfettered by care, smile indulgently at the colorful cacophony as it unfolds behind their drooping lids, Oh!–what flowers Spring would surely bring.