✴
in the quiet of stillness
I can hear a snowflake
gently land
upon my cheek
a flurry of gossamer
frozen lace lilts ~
peacefully
transforming
the ennui
of chilling silence
into a wilderness symphony

✴

.
Boiling clouds approach the dawn,
a profusion of sinister foreboding,
banking up to obscure the day,
a menacing storm just reloading.

A figure runs across the moor,
panic and purpose in hostile flight,
pursued relentless across the heather,
desperately chasing the receding night.

A treeline beckons promising safety,
a disguise from the hunters view,
open ground slips passed slowly,
the forests sanctuary calls anew.


I wake startled, heart hammering in my chest,
fight or flight images seek my mind to infest.
The pounding in my head, hooves on a forest floor,
provoke shivers, as rivulets upon a dampened moor.
My breathing slows and sweat dries upon my skin,
a sense of belonging starts to grow from within.
Dazed I slip sideways out of my comfort bed,
and stare into the mirror at the antlers on my head.
I return to the bed and casually slide back in,
wondering where my fantasy dreams had been,
but all I discovered was another fitful sleep
as the images form of a treasure I keep.

Memory bubbles up and I am in a glade,
sun shining bright and sat in the shade.
Billhook and bow saw propped by a tree,
the life in the forest feeling good to me.
Peace and tranquility, I counted my luck,
when out of the trees sprang a young buck.
So fragile but already magnificent and proud,
stomping his hooves, snorting out loud.
Brave and insolent he looked at my eyes,
staring me down, holding caution so wise.
A look passed between us, a mute reflection,
an instant mind meld of atavistic connection.
I was He and He was me,
my spirit guide for eternity.
And the sun shone upon us in that glade,
the forest spirits celebrating that bond made.


With failing energy, tired from the chase,
a thought of doom and my senses race.
Taking rest in the heart of a clearing,
a quick twang and the pain is searing.
Surrounded in a trap the hunters prepared,
there is no way of escape, I am ensnared.
The loosed arrows point is sharply felt,
as a crimson flood stains my pelt.
Mind is swooning and my legs bend.
This is not how the Old Tales end ...

The scythe of Death merrily reaps,
lightening strikes, thunder rolls.
The frigid grave waits so silent,
empty, for he whom the bell tolls.

Boiling clouds obscure Dawns pale skies,
as the hunters horn in triumph it cries.
This is the End, when the dream dies.
My heart is still and I gently close my eyes.


© Pagan Paul (11/11/17)

"The Kiss" in marble
of Rodin's work
embraces art with passion.
Ovid wrote of kisses
back when "amor"
was in fashion.
To capture
such a moment
in marble or in verse,
is beautiful
but can't refine
the taste
when lips immerse.
In meditation,
I close my eyes
on kisses
I remember.
of hot August nights
in sultry heat
or amid a fireplace
in December...

Lies and deceit, it's all around me
Lies and deceptions, two bad surroundings

I see no point, I see no end
Those are enemies, who I thought were friends.

I see and hear it, find it hard to believe
They don't want any good, but only to deceive

I don't know who to trust, everyone's a target
The things they'll do it’s hard to forget

Deceit and deception, over and over
The chances of good friend, like a four leaf clover

Be careful of personas or alters unknown
Hidden behind a profile not wearing perfume but rather cologne