Obsidian Water
In the black of night, a puddle serves as a scrying mirror.
The blossoms of unopened apple trees float
Across the bleak expanse of cold, black sky above
Wide lakes of cornfields rippling beneath with the wind.
Soft white petals
Ripped from the safety of the bud.
/
Green follows and meets grey storm clouds
Until they shift to black.
The world cinches around the memory of obsidian
Smooth in his hands
And sweet against his tongue, spiced with lust.
/
Lightning crackles, moves like a crab through the blue-black
Cover of clouds that rumbling and scream and cry.
Across hills of grassy, glassy green iris
It flashes quick, like a spectre dashing down an old corridor
Full to bursting with dead memories and sad reflections.
/
The storm brings him back,
Drops his soul into the puddles gathered in the forest.
The eyes emptied of spring life see that too,
See the twinkling desperation of life lapping at the edges
Of impermanent watering holes.
/
He stoops to a denim-clad knee in a crouch,
Hand hovering above the untouched black.
Green melts into black, held back only by the wind.
There, on the rounding of a third minute,
Shapes rise from the dark.
/
Where did I go? How did I arrive here?
Help.
The words float to the surface, linger in their bubbles, and pop.
Stories lift and flutter like drowning moths
While he bites into a meal of despair.
/
A rainstorm of pleas ripples across the puddle's surface
And the hunched man jolts with terror.
The low, gravelly tenor of the voice in the pond
Should spit and snap but never beg.
Wind rips through the forest and the puddle is scattered.
/
The voice vanishes on the frigid wind of spring.
Winter settles back into the bones,
An unwanted guest complaining in his joints.
Iron fills his mouth and copper rests on his lips.
Salt trails down his cheeks.
/
He is gone. The black waters smooth again but empty.
Voiceless. There used to be a symphony on his lips.
Laughter. Stories so grand and sarcastic
They could burn through a forest of logs each night.
They were gone. He was locked away.
/
Grief seized the man with sudden stiffness
As he hunched, slouched, and fell to the cool ground.
What is there to do but listen to the echoing silence,
Lay down on the muddy, mossy earth
And fall into the sleep only sorrow can grant?
/
Silver Serpent Books
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About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
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Comments (3)
Dark and full of imagery that carries a thread of desperation! Lots of incredible lines. “Lightning crackles, moves like a crab through the blue-black” really stuck out to me. Just so apt and cleverly penned
Some really beautiful lines in there!
Oooof! Rich. Visceral. Lingers in the back of your mind.