Where The Dead Wait

The forest is dark,
the trees –
their branches are heavy with leaves of dark maroon,
their trunks are stark white and smooth,
you walk here,
with warmth on your breath,
clouds bloom from you,
white and incandescent,
a veil pours from you,
drifting up that’s also down,
so dark though the sun is a silver ball of harsh fire in the sky.

The light is more sharp
more precise than it ever should be.
It’s a light that does not drive the darkness with its primordial fear away,
instead –
it focuses the shadows,
making them seem deeper, darker, abysses of the mind,
you look at them and they look back,
sucking, pulling at you,
wanting you and you wanting them.

But what of that dark and
the velvet veil beyond,
fear keeps you from it as surely as knowledge.

The trees stir in the icy breeze,
dark red swirls to the ground,
to lay in pools that blanket the feet of the bearer.

Silence would rain here but it may not,
as silence is something,
the trees with slender branches,
reach for the sky quelling any substance to the air,
you walk alone waiting,
trying to look to a sky that hurts the eyes,
that where never there.

Posted: Sunday, August 9th, 2020 @ 11:49 am
Categories: Poems, The Sight.
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