Flame Feather

Poetic musings of the not-quite-poem kind...

Fantasies at Hillcrest Abbey

Acre-d arches stone on bone on tone of marches still that haunt the skyshrine rule the dry line of this page some don't believe and me so small I cast a shadow tossed in fallowness of honour to their stage but you won't hear them scream my name not here you'll fear them dream the same as me for myth in echoed wizardry of wind that erodes misery with time designed to fall beyond the day. And where wire coils fire boils seeking shapes so spire oils those who won't cog in with their demise or shrieking eyes like children tamed to black bears trained to stack stares way above the reach of their cares doubt of mind and out of find they reach to mirrors' depths.

Sunset phased in pun-let ways to chase the ruin through this craze I dance between these viaducting tears into the cavalry who clash in grassy saddle-ry of arms in palms and riddle-ry of rhapsody this night. The knight that fight the warrior I shielded in my vision from the courier of justice she prevailed upon herself like angels skinning sheepen souls and clothing wings in woollen roles to take the land and charge their tolls for peace throughout the helm. I laugh and cloud their stepless wake collecting halos that they shake for live and burn on Earth they say yes give and yearn in birth they pray as nakedness meets nakedness and lust confesses all. Their cries stir up the arches know their thrusts are splintering Cupid's bow their claws are tearing fingers sharing ecstasy in fusion-pairing fool the sky and you have storm but cool the ice and you'll bring dawn like motion slowed to impress power potion rode to climb the tower ride devotion steal the notion 'til like you exhausted broken in the heat of horns the season falls.

©TreyEbonyRavencrest 21September.1999

Blaze-ed Be

Spyrus Pyro: I inhale thee. Your firey wrath search no more for I stand in soul an offering, fuel unintended but welcome, surge me, for I taketh from the center of every earth, I taketh by Rite of the Sixth Flame and demand to be extinguished - hear me - the skin in each finger posed, parched, hands outstretched and shaking, alight with the charred ruin, the charged collapsing of an unstable me like a forest matched by one misfortune or a secret stabbed from mind to treacherous mind, I am burned alive, and the scars are to the bone.

Spyrus Pyro: I inhale thee. Fox-trapped, my cubs dead and no more reason, I breathe your acid and call upon Earth to heat, Wind to cease, Water to thirst, and Fire...Fire to rage. This is intent - raw; naked; and terrifyingly deserved. An end to it all in one massacre, one glorious pitch of fever with eyes a conductor - raised to whites and commanding the dark and light of it all, the static the intense unburyable streak of storm and flame combined and ripped from the sky to strike me dead to lava and molten black.

Spyrus Pyro: I shalt inhale thee no more. May the ghosts evict and restore me from my body, and may they leave my soul, blessed be, leave my soul and end the hunt - make us equals - for that I have never been to anyone or anything alive.

Spirits: inhale me... and I beg of thee, maketh me no more afraid.

©TreyEbonyRavencrest -- 24.August.2000

Runic Myths

Night so still unbroken dreams with leaves which daren't brush their neighbours skin and lapse of time that leaps so blindly, focused on none but skies of hopes while wistful wishing waiting ever, Patience drums its fingers and counts how long it can hold its breath.

Flitter shiver hum silently gonna rock yourself and wear the tree-bark; squeeze a pebble name a star but do it as a statue. Claw at moss and clouds so parallel with bitten fingers which feel no bites and like the wolf which lies beside you stonely must you endure the pain, slowly must you endure the strain, bare the weight and endure the bleakness so victory will leave its footprints in the frost which writes the ground.

No place now for doubts or skeptic thoughts - no, prove 'em wrong - life's too clever for the narrow-spirits and now you'll prove you play to win. So endure the pain ensure the strain cuts deeper than your blade of lies, tie the noose of truth around the neck of every man and wait just wait to kick the stool from underneath their feet.

Fevered waves they crash as thunder, hear it - can you hear it true? Carve the rune of Mannaz in blood which freezes in your heart, chisel at uncertainty and taunt the condemned with pity lick their wounds with venom cast a shadow with loyalty and corner it with laughter new for freedom lies so close you feel its breath upon your cheek as raindrops fall from abandoned branches: angels pushed from their mothers' hand from clouds to learn to fly. Fall so hard you try to catch them: "Wings - where are their wings?" you cry, then cradle their shattered bodies in your tearful, trembling palms. Fingers curled around them whisper fate of ashes cruel, grace is but a mask of terror pretense of justice and slashes fuelled by shades of white in setting light of dawn.

Sky then ripped with Moment bolts with burning tempest flame, veins of heaven pulse with fire white that jolt the heart of every creature every ghostly soul and every believing scrap of trust that waits in turmoil abuse of anticipation, encircling the point of Faith and never blinking in the winds that fracture rage, splaying shards of broken hopes that cut that shred that stab your inner strength and watch it keel.

Determination - panic stricken - lunges in some final act of duty; fingers torn and bloodied seize an ancient mighty oak as screaming blazing pleas erupt for mercy praying mercy begging mercy of the terror now awoke. Dead leaves screeching to you leeching crushed to dust in all the smoke and blasting gales which crest and crash, drown you, drag and drown you, gag and crown you, left to choke.

Darkness is your master now so swear it your allegiance, for the maze of open choice has left you in a realm devoid of choosing. So stand and make your oath to blackness speak it clear and waver not damn yourself to lurk with demons as every dream of truth is shot. Judgement grins, bearing fangs which glint and leer and grip your throat in stalactites of evil while you slowly raise your hand.

Yet Contempt is chained by none and bound to base not by blood nor word nor threat of steel but merely shunned from goodness and so weeps amidst its fate. Now given chance one chance to soar it offers itself a sacrifice to every aspiration ever conjured in its sorrow hurling forwards plunging downwards; laughing - see no tears that plummet - laughing as the eyes of red swell beneath in horror of its deed.

Grace of silent crucifixion, grace of static stillness new, pace of halted empty friction, under cloudless bitter hue. Take a step and hear it echo take a breath and breathe alone as solitude - no - loneliness becomes your only ally: the only one you knows behind you, even if he's left behind.

White so white you could hear a sin drop hear a thought a mile away but no one's sinning no one's thinking no one's there to hear you pray beside the wingless-angel grave you stained with blood from nail-drove wounds and helpless tears your dream harpooned in catacombs of soul.

Flitter shiver hum notelessly gonna rock yourself and wear the charred remains of a mighty oak. Then sift its cinders looking to see your only star has fallen from the sky of hope and you weren't there to catch it.

Now maybe you weren't born of patience and maybe you could of practised more but there is a music none can teach - the one thing you were searching for. As love needs but one instrument though never one alone while out of darkest depths it steps and to your heart is shown.

She stands not close enough to touch and yet you feel her feel you know her know you trust her trust you love her. She stands not close enough to touch and yet she touches you.

Unclasping hidden palms unfolding opening her life to you in uncharted enchanted whispers that do dance in trancing dew. And in those hands she holds your star, murmurs that she caught it for you sold herself and bought it for you spent her spirit and sought it for you, roaming compass far.

It's then you hear the music playing, softly sweetly, chiming low, and together you sing of runic myths of unicorns which jest below of all the truths your secrets share as you watch your dreams and acorns grow.

©TreyEbonyRavencrest -- 1.November.1998

Tain Green

You used to talk to yourself in the mirror for hours everyday. I admired that. I used to shout at you for screeching in my ear at 7am on a Sunday too. You bastard. You used to speak, but only to me. "Tay," you'd say, and I was never quite sure if it was me you were calling, or yourself. Tay. Tay. Tay. Maybe it was both. The day you died - the eleventh of the eleventh, Rememberance Day - I ordered pizza (extra ham) and garlic bread. I listened extensively to L7. To My Ruin. To Alanis Morissette's first album... but not to you because you didn't sing. You lay at the bottom of your cage, head resting against the side, wings outstretched as though you were anticipating your final flight... and you were silent.

I could hardly look.

I touched you and for once you didn't squeal and launch yourself up to the curtain rail - you only used to fly to me when you wanted something. So many people are like that, too...but not Rowann.

Do you remember Rowann?

She was there with me in the petshop that day... that day I was suppose to be at school when we saw you. She was wearing red and I'd tied her hair back because it was windy. That was over a year ago now - seems kinda funny - a year and two weeks and I smiled. I had three and a half best friends. A girlfriend. A banquet of online buddies. A cat. And then you. It's been one of those years though, I guess, because all that blew away and the only things still snagged onto the edge of my life is the far-away shape of Alaska, and the cat that killed you.

It doesn't seem fair.

I'll bury you tomorrow in the back garden... I'd do it today only it's dark and cold. And raining. I don't think anyone should be burried in the rain. I have to go back into hospital again now, but I'll take one of your feathers and try not to cry too much. I just can't help wishing sometimes that I had been accidently thrown out the top-story window when I was born.

© TreyEbonyRavencrest -- Saturday.11.11.2000