In The Stars.

For the present, memory is rattled by the sorrel sobs that do not quell from my bleeding lips
And I, now enclosed, in the flowers and darkened furnaces that blemished on my pale skin,
I do not know, nor do I remember, but it is through the ashes in my weary palms,
On the ghoul traces of wind that says to me, ensconced,
“Slicked through the tears of the dark clouds with wraith-like fires upon a weak soul,
The wind shall hear no name, and the starlit leaves of gold through the weeping rivers,
They shall be deaf upon the foreign voices, bewildered, through the mantic reveries
And they disperse as the wanton, dead fruits, which will perish!”
For the present, memory is shaken into the darkest of the sea that lay with a gushing silk, primped with bottles,
And I look toward the stars and I see a night that lay through the murmurs below the wind
And it is as those faint drifts of the sea that could leave me here alone as the blossoms wilt
And as blood spurts from the sea, like a crying statue, kneeled before the stars,
As it whimpers in its fury upon the torn eventide.
I cried out to the godlike trees and their picturesque ripples of leaf,
And I say no more than a shy rivulet of the candles revived from the paradise of fire, fire,
And I step on the lonely stones that beneath my feet, unruly, curl until the crevices wither,
And I see the wrath, I see it, as the reaped snow covers my skin in ice blisters,
That I know now through the crowded vapid cities in their red floral dreams,
That mince poetry on the side-wall cafés in foreign languages, and their deathly coats
That shimmer quietly in solitude at the London fog,
While the song curses at his lips,
And it traces the sunset shadows that hide in simplicity among the integral shore
The crystalline leaves that blemish the waters, my flowers die as I let them go,
They always have;
And I wonder as I gaze to the echoing stars, why do you look upon me?
You have lit overhead and as the chill provokes my skin;
I wonder as the stars bruise,
As they reap into the dark, they are a miscellany of lights above the gardens,
Above the laughing crickets that live in the dead trees, building their nests in the stirring leaves
And I step on the lonely stones that beneath my feet, unruly, curl until the crevices wither,
And I see the wrath, I see it, as the reaped snow covers my skin in ice blisters,
As I cross the wind like a red phantom flame that kills stones and woodpiles,
And I wander as the rivers meet under the weeping moon, and she cries, she cries,
Among the wielded dew in the ashen breath of vernal fire in the cruel elegy from the sketched sun
I fall further and further into the laurels that gleam with a blind glass that will tremble upon the thunder’s roars on this shadowed pale shore,
As wallops of undone springs abandon a dying youth in the stars above, as we watch over.

© 2019 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.



Categories: Prose

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

7 replies

  1. 👍👍👍
    Lucy in the the Stars
    Lucy by the Sea
    Lucy in the Sky!
    My indeed!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is some exceptional writing. Wow!!

    Liked by 1 person

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