©2022 Michael Raven
I asked the world under for some thoughts. They came,
There, the iridescent black feather falls over water. I catch it in my hand and brandish it like a cape, tossing it over my shoulders. I am shadow within the the dawn, looking out. Whispers around. One who sees, there is a calling under the doorway stone standing, beckoning with slender arms, thin fingers, olive skin. Follow me. Blackthorn hand, a balance. Slip obsidian, sharp in hand.
Striding forth, there is ash, white at my knee and two gold eyes staring back at me. I’m back! I’m back! they say. I smile, ducking under weathered rock, pretending there is sleep in my eye as I wipe away a tear. “That, I can see, stolen child.” Twining between, long drawn caress, firm embrace. We will celebrate, you and me, and I nod. “Soon. Soon,” I agree. I will push you down, you will see.
Melting skies burning fields; this is not the forest. Recognizing nothing, I follow paths under, between root, under the tree. Did you not see the signs? Of course you did, but you never see the first. Guilty, I admit, as charged. It took me five years to see the signs screaming in my eyes. This took thirty, interrupting my thoughts. I almost gave up. I promise to make amends later, but the light draws me along the path, beckoning, burning bright.
Ocean blue under blood red moons. I hear song from the before, simple stuff. I look around, in wonder, seeing cliff and rock and a storm coming in from over the waters. I turn to go back underground, wrong turns maybe made. Laughter, arms embrace I cannot break. A kiss and warm lips under my ear. Good. You came. A tug and then falling backwards into the waves, drowning with arms tangled around me. Sinking.