Feathers or Falsities?
My sanity. Misplaced, misshapen.
Every time I saw it I thought of him. Brighteyes.
But it slipped away somehow unnoticed.
Am I me? Am I them? Am I recognizable?
There are those rare moments when all those things you’ve found is in one person and you’re so scared of that you could scream for the sheer pleasure of magic.
I love. I hate the love you gave. I love the love you give. Yet I love you.
But there isn’t any honor left between us.
Just venom and nectar. Godlike really. Pain and power and lust and love. Deities whose desires define their potency.
We unfold, our shadows eclipsing the sun. Icarus embodied. Emboldened.
Our shadows paint dirty pictures on the window’s wake.
Sex late at night under sultry sheets. Sweat sleek bodies, blue in the moonlight.
The whole room was awash in blue and the only sound was our breathing and the sultry hiss of skin on skin.
On the sill lingers the raven. Waiting, watching. Will it be war or a brief dewy entanglement? She is ready for whatever awaits her. She knows the ferocity of true love and the frivolity of all else. Her master accepting nothing unfaltering, unbroken. Even if it is broken. Steadfast in the cracks.
It waits in the shadows we create.
There are diamonds on the sidewalks and streets tonight. For years now, it has picked these diamonds up and placed them at your feet.
Glittery trinkets distract. Odin’s eye is sharp. He awaits word on this union. Of horns and tea. An end to false flight.
Has the circle closed? The raven is unsure.
Pomegranate seeds, little red
rubies. Exploded on watering tongues. Crouched naked in bed, the
red juices running down
arms and chins, staining your
starched sheets.
The raven sees it all. It watches his skin slide across hers, emblazoned with his effigy to his goddess. His worship resolute.
Pomegranate. The fruit of fertility and death. Hell whispers as your body awakens paradise. A sweet juxtaposition. Smells of war. We’ll lose paradise over love and the raven will eulogize the apocolypse.
And so the raven sees…
Her wings sprouted from her body. She was flying just as fast and she was laughing and crying at the same time and her eyes were half moons of brilliant green and then we were there.
His love shape shifting her into something similar while the real thing waits, watches. Munin’s muse masquerading.
They twirled around the galaxy and moons and Venus and stars and through black holes.
He loved her and he wanted her to see him.
So she flew away on wings he manufactured.
So expectant of rejecting, of being pushed away. Every move he made the raven saw the coming end.
The raven’s focus is singular. The man whose destiny is in the summer breezes and heady forest secrets. Hugin’s heart splayed.
Foretold fates. On its wings the tale of loves and lives. On its beak the song of elders.
But what good are prophecies unhinged?
She can only hope the absence will make him wish that she was there with him.
Sunward circling, the black feathers fly. Up and away.
The world will end in blue.
And so, this is farewell, perhaps.
Will he recognize his fate? Will he fly away with me?
If so, it ends here.
But this road is dark and dangerous. Traversing tricky. It’s path well worn for a time. Brave travelers never reaching its nexus. Through anguish, eternity awaits.
And it is divine.