I.
I remember the beginning of this cruelly dark nightmare,
before souls were crushed and gnawed by its jaws
before flesh was torn and flayed beneath moonlight
before cyclones raged between temples and roared.
The soil was soft and soaked and fertile
smelling rich of lavender and petrichor
scents soared through nostrils and dilated pupils
filling the lungs
with ferverous
ardor.
Spring promised harvests of fresh flowers and sunrise –
dreams of azalea beneath blazing blue skies.
Wisteria would vine around bones, softly squeezing –
nourishing bodies and blooming with life.
The sun would burn lustful in a warm crimson shade
and honeyguides would chirp as the heavens poured rain –
stimulating the senses with beauty and wonder
if only had Winter
not torn us
asunder.
II.
What should grow now from this desolate dry permafrost?
Soils snapped frozen by Khione’s icy breath
insufflating, expanding and engulfing like vapour
glaciating the Sun to an ultramarine orb.
Veins of light beg to crack through its surface
exuding from the soft sultry flame at its core
bones rattle, crack and chill to the marrow
as life wails for release
from this enclave
of cold.
I remember the moment before madness took hold
before hail showered shattering psyches like glass:
souls emanating heat, burning together as snow
fell softly upon her violin-string eye lashes.
Snowflakes melting and flowing and merging
subsumed by sorrow in a rivulet of tears
a bittersweet blend of love and contrition
now frozen still
in the stormy chill
of fear.
I gave her the knife as her eyes turned to stone
vowing her breadcrumbs would lead the way home.
We inhaled the sunset’s final warm hue
as the blade pierced my chest splitting reality in two
and as sheets of blood spilled cold from my veins –
I prayed that the Spring
may heal our
raw wounds.
