The Flying Souls
Poetry for the Moon.
The fall
It was all dust and fire before you and I were here. The scene was lonely, unbuilt and naked as the morning sun was lighting the tip of your eyes. Then we both came along, we fell on the earth like a burning comet from a distant star. And Still I can't forget your touch and still I don't want to be an inch away from the tip of your ice cold fingers. You were an evermore. You were the bowl in which my soul swam.
The light
We were the sight of their destruction. The uncomfortable truth of disaster. The pain of joy in their eyes and the shock of lightning in their eyes. I was the hunger and you were their thirst. I was the water and you were the moon. It was you who put ache in my life and it was you who were the drug to my life. And then you left me in the great forlorn woods of Ikelhaze where the light never shone and the wind never blew. For years I walked alone to look for you, how did we part our ways when we were meant to be one?
The woods
You had an enchanting scent and a mesmerising texture at every centimeter of your skin. Being next to you felt like walking in a newborn forest next to an ocean full salt. You completed me, you were there for me and then the great night started to snow. You turned into a blizzard, once a part of me, you turned unknown. Like the epilogue of winter, you turned me into pieces and when your senses arrived, you were a different person. A person you failed to understand.
The wither
Your name is on my lips. Always, that it had become the first syllable of my birth and an epitaph on the treacherous stone floating above my girth. I look for you like a soul withering close to your eyes and I chant your name like you are the last goddess from the river across the town of dead. These northern winds never lied to me, but why do they say you're just away for a while? It doesn't bloom like it used to, the water doesn't call you name anymore, o' the light of north, you've become the river that never dries.
The burning room
My home burnt itself on the rusted woods of our past. Was it you or was it your idea I loved, I still don't know and maybe I'd never want to know. Can we be again the the stranger we used to be?
