Overturned are my
struggles to find the jewels of the sun.
A stealth of time, purveyor of death,
watches me constantly. He is the sole survivor;
bag of bones, a Lazarus, rising from the grave,
his dark half my constant shadow.
Shrouded in mist the ghost moon rises.
I feel snared in its web of dreams.
Null regions, temp idle chance,
The Mirrored Realm on high,
Dog Chewers battle the Serpentine Lynx'
their violence flares.
Hugging the thorn-bush
I become both pawn and victim,
making frightened noises
while rooted to the spot.
Then a brief interlude as War-birds fly over,
and the hunters flee their domain.
The shore line winds bone-white
past deserted fishermen's shacks as
gulls shriek eerily over a turbulent sea.
Vaporous thought, as a perpetual chill
seeps through my skin,
how I yearn for yesterday's blankets,
but yesterday was years ago.
I slip into oblivion, boulder-gray
blown about in frantic wind gusts.
Suddenly tiny creatures
descend through the darkness;
each small hand holding a glowing ember,
as they flit on tiny wings
offering hope from up above.
I stare, dazzled by sunlit-ice
no mouth of death, this,
but a luminous feeling of well being.
Now descending is a glorious presence
scattering goodness upon the earth.
Two embers she gently places in my hands,
jewels of the sun,
see how they gleam and flicker,
or could they be stars?