Below the mountains I shall live,
where the intoxicated souls of hounds are within.
As they forget their values,
I remain staring at the lights.
Not able to move.
As I was in a dark place of my mentality, I felt an urge to write about how it is to live below and surrounded by the mountains in Bergen's society.
In the dark night I was prevented from my satisfying slumber,
as I was troubled by my rooms dark corner.
Though my eyes were soon to be sealed,
may my dreamcatcher cure me from this dreadful darkness to be revealed.
Thankfully, the dreamcatcher protected me through this night,
as I was navigated to an existence so bright.
I was floating above the sea as I saw the lights
of thousand beaconing lighthouses from these ongoing heights.
Keenly guided from all insecurities,
I now clearly see the seas of opportunities.
each solitary shell encasing each glowing miniature bulb
embodies a memory
a blur of seasonal rememberance associated with someone whose face you can't quite put your finger on
blue : sadness
red : anger
green : jealousy
yellow : happiness
concocted and connected through a dense cord the colour of coal we neglect to remember holds each lights hand and ties their souls together
Reflecting shadows on shards of broken glass baubels and the cheek of an ornate angel too delicate to cry
Their colour coded combination presenting a haze of neon and cheap affordable replicas of essential festive decor
But deflect your attention from detail and analysis
Caress the sight as a whole and take care not to delve too deeply into the secret each dull glowing ember might wish to divulge to you through whispers in a dark room left empty for too long
Before the dimming is inevitable
the loss is unnoticeable
At least it faded before the power went out
Looking up at the
sky and seeing
the Northern lights
Looking up at the sky
and seeing the northern
lights and seeing the
beautiful colors up in
the sky it is
peaceful and calming
I love seeing the
beautiful colors like
purple, lime green,
pink and baby blue
seeing the cool up in
the sky is cool and
amazing northern lights
Seeing the mooses and
the northern lights
behind the mooses
© Amanda Kay Hill
Music is in the air at the gleaming funfair,
With the moon and sun there celebrating cheery.
There are millions of streams under the signs of gleams,
Following the night's dreams with curiosity.
Shining are the bright lights, throughout the depths of nights,
Offering many sights as a sweet luxury.
They are shooting like stars, the luxuriant cars,
Along the shiny bars and each murky alley.
Now it's time of the dawn; off are lights of neon,
Lets celebrate Gihon, instead of poetry!
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.
A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.
When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.
I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—
A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.
What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?
Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—
delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.
Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.
The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
and patient drug dealers,
hunchbacked dirty lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—
The air encapsulated within the perdition
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.
A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
damned in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.
The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.
Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
The road that ends below lies deep, lies still.
No moon to light the snow. The sky is clear.
Transfixed, heads back and arm in arm, eyes wide!
The Holiest of Holy Nights is here—
So spill the lights of Heaven into sight—
Illumined, rising, falling, shifting trace.
Upon the starry sweep of Christmas night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways
Above the shepherd pine and hemlock choir.
There— This night! The sky! The lights!
The stars! The fire!
Above! Across! Dear God—
To miss you is to shake the world like the apocalypse
& all known myths vanish to cosmic depths.
if you are still there or somehow in time unknown
you choose to imitate those myths doomed
& decided that after all, stars never explode
but devoured by spotless black holes of your memories.
Your home rests under polar lights;
sleeping under dancing specks of dusts.
To miss you is to allow the gods kneel
while I am lost in a young galaxy,
light-years away, perhaps just a millimeter, from home.