The Lyon's Wilderness Den

The Lyons Wilderness Den

By: E. Cluff Elliott

 

 

 

 

 

 

The dream that awoke me was one of great illuminations. It holds deep inside me a reverence of wonderful passions.

The landscape glowed bright with purple florescent light.

Then the light changed to a view of The crags of Derange.

The clouds under my eyelids and likewise in the sky flew me over seas and valleys to land near an all seeing mind.

I asked; mindful of the mind and mindful of my own, “Why was I brought to this place of irrefutable calm?”

I felt the mind was hesitant to answer, perhaps even coaxed to lure my dream this far, by a third magnetic force with the consistency of fire.

What ever the mind was hesitant about it would not let on. Instead, it continued breathlessly beautiful in its soothing, quam-free song.

“I am the seer. I am the augur to those born old of Rome. I am he who channels the Prides desires and hazards. My knowledge is the pathway home.”

 

I instantly awoke; I moved not a muscle as the mind’s quam-free song still rang in my ears. I let my eyes open and focus on the watermarks above me: the ones I have slept under for so many years.

Watermarks remind me so much of bad habits. Over the years, the mark spreads becoming pools of darker matter.

So I asked myself between my ears what I wanted to be, the dark stain on the ceiling or a star lustily lighting the way.

The decision was obvious and yet I still did not move. I lay atop a Zenith cushion reminding myself to breath.

A monumental quest has peeked around the corner and called me by my name. A quest, a journey to never be mistaken for anything akin to fame.

It is a pauper’s life and one of tremendous sacrifice to truly give control to our dreams device.

I have given in to the dream, I have seen realities seam, and now I am called to complete the lean.

 

I jump to my feet beneath a multitude of dismal pools. The congealed stains cry out in silence pleading me to join their gloom.

I pay no heed to temptations that were never there, instead I reach for my kaleidoscope: my tool for alerting the rest of my lair.

I reach for my robe society calls arsenic; I adorn myself with poison and yet I am not ill or sick.

I have waited so long to hear the call, to prove to all that I will not fall.

“It is time now, the dream has come.” I said to Doug-Doug mischievous; that’s the name by the bards he’s known.

“What ho, a foe, a filigree sign?” He asked, getting to his feet and dressing in robes begrimed like mine.

I told him of the passion, the reverence the dream exuded. Then while watching his cod colored eyes I knew in his mind, my words were proven.

The stout man the bards call Doug-Doug grins a sardonic grin. He said, “Do you know what this means my friend, this is the beginning of the end.”

It was true and we knew just what to do.

Our bodies were a blur and before noon, we were packed. We had greasy grimy gopher guts and some blankets for a knapsack.

We were ready to begin the journey; we were ready to start the path to the goal of everlasting enlightenment, to the land of peace at last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Traversing great miles is a task not taken likely, and we do not or else our skulls be driven to insanity.

It was in our second week forth and not a second too soon, we beheld a sign that said “Beyond is the great Scorpion Platoon.”

Cautiously Doug and I inspected the sign with great consideration. Understanding what it meant and understanding where it came from.

Our first test is upon us, or first test of worth, to prove our minds to the Pride, to continue forth.

With the sign moving behind us, at least a mile or so, Doug and I stand between two mountain peeks before a knee high gate just beyond our little toe.

“I’m confused.” Said Doug-Doug Mischevious “Why is a knee high gate so great? Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool and all but I thought this was the Scorpions State.”

Then a low rumble of a voice sounded from behind a shrub just beyond the gate. It said, “It’s not the greatness of the gate. The true greatness is in the steps we take.”

 

Doug and I gaulked we stared in disbelief. We stared at the two-foot tall man before us with his long pincer of a tail and abnormally furry feet.

“Are you to graze on my sight all day or continue your way? If it’s the latter you choose there be no reason for rouse.”

Doug and I swiveled our heads and questioned each other wordlessly. Deciding decisions determined by destiny.

I say, “The latter we choose though it’s true we graze on your sight. What is this gate that we’ve come to at our knee’s length and height?”

“The edge of your mind.” Was his final word on the matter. After that he vanished as his body twisted into curls of mist and powder.

Together we placed our left feet over the gate determined to find what edge this is. Shades of green turn florescent purple changing the world to one of radiant conversations.

Our right feet join our lefts and we look back at our obstacle, our accomplishments.

 

“Do you feel different now that we’ve crossed our minds edge?” Doug-Doug asked as his face hid a spark of a grin.

“No but perhaps these purple florescent trees can start the scene. Maybe if we push onward we can find the dream.”

So we did and it ever was, we traveled about on a diligent buzz.

Desolate miles of uncompromised death stare back at our hazel-eyed pits of regret.

Tribulations befell us oh no doubt. For twenty-seven years we wandered about.

We saw oracles, we saw god fire, which fell from the sky like god bombs, burning frowning people with desire.

We rambled near rich and besieged the poor, with gifts of grandeur to fill our karma cores.

The land is hard and the further we progress it grows harder. We do not fain, we do not give in, we are this lands martyr.

 

Years after we have seen the last signs of civilization, we come to a shear Cliffside equal to those of the great prophetcation.

“The Wall” as some may call of, the shear wall of completed life, stands before us measuring unspeakable heights.

“These are The Crags of Derange.” Doug said while looking up it’s face, and I knew his words were true as I began to inspect the place.

There were no cracks not one purchase to climb on with either handholds or footholds to bid time on.

Doug-Doug’s eyes began to grow wide as he realizes what I have already seen, and I begin to understand why Derange was chosen as it’s name.

“We must not let these crags get the best of us, we must keep our sanity firm in mind, even though there is no purchase and seemingly no where to climb.”

Tired to the bone we vehemently search, for our hopes to peak the wall before us, to find passage up this earth.

 

 

Nineteen days have past on top of the first twenty-seven years. Our high hopes that were once completely beautiful are becoming consumed by fear.

A misty fog rolls in blanketing our sight line. Our limbs are cold, our minds are hot with the discouragement of lost time.

“Why have you brought me to this place please tell me why.” Doug-Doug yelled while throwing his hands to the sky.

“Did you bring us here to die next to this right angle, or has this dream you speak of left your mind in mangles?”

He turned around and walked away without another word to say.

His figure dissipated, within the mist of hatred, and left me to my own, to brave my thoughts alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“These are the Crags of Derange.” My first mindless voice announced. “No, this is the Wall of Truth.” Said my second with a pounce.

This is how it was, my dido mind raged on with no one but myself to hear the song.

“Doug-Doug’s gone and I’m left alone at the base of a perpendicular quam.”

I sink to my knees and hold my head to the sky as rain starts to fall from the misty sight line.

“Why have you led me to lose my friend? I have paid my toll, I was true to the end.

We held onto trust we held onto faith, and for what to be placed on a lathe?

I have not come this far and not alone, to be chipped away at like a wagon tongue.

Faith will conquer, truth will prevail…” and it was then I realized, faith and truth can also heal.

Just then another thought occurred to me, a thought that should seem insane, but then why not? Are these not the Crags of Derange?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I jumped to my feet and sped off in the rain. I followed the towering wall beside me looking for the Doug that changed.

I ran for hours in the dark and misty gloom. I ran while calling Doug’s name hoping to try my idea soon.

Nineteen days and nineteen hours later, I hear Doug’s voice roll through the surrounding blotter.

But what I heard was only Doug’s tone for when I found Doug-Doug Mischievous I found his mind was gone.

 

He was laying flat on the dirt with the top of his head hitting the wall. He hummed the theme to Happy Hour and periodically screamed, “DON’T LET ME FALL.”

I stood next to him and bending over I looked into his eyes. What I saw looking back at me was far past surprise.

“What ho my friend, my filigree chum. How did you get to my minds cluttered unknown?

Wait, wait don’t tell me please. I can figure this out on my own without begging cease.”

Then a terrifying and horrific event took place. Doug’s back arched up ward, creating a bridge of sorts.

But the bridge didn’t stop there and soon it was goon altogether, as he pushed himself onto his head with his face against the wall and his feet in the air.

Again, he moved upward, end over end once more. Until he was his bodies length above me vertically attached to the wall.

His eyes gazed down, the total surprise had gone, he started to breathe heavy after seeing where he was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I know the last time we spoke it was quite a scuffle but how did I get to be in this sort of trouble?”

Doug asked while still pinned to the walls of derange. I saw he had finally woken up from his metaphorical haze.

I said,”Stay right were you are Doug I have an idea to try. Maybe we can both peak these crags like a slide.”

Doug-Doug looked at me with his eyebrows raised high. “You’re not suggesting to me we can fly?”

“You’re stuck to a wall and you think we can’t fly, will you shut your piehole and give it a try.”

He grinned wide despite where he was and then he broke out in laughter. He said, “It’s good to be back to reality and out of hells rafters.”

I nodded in return and I began to explain my idea, on how to peak the crags before us, before the ending year.

I said, “As you have already discovered this vertical slab is not mentally whole. If we give it an inch, it may easily take our soul.

But if we can let go like our childhood faith has, perhaps we can slide up this face and top these crags.”

 

Together we focused and shaded our peripheral sight. Tuning out social clairvoyance contemptuously trying to hid our eye.

Together we overcome. Together we brain the none. Together all third eyes become one.

Now that the eye is open, we see that the land corrupts with tendrils of greenish fingers translucent with depths only humans confuse the truth with.

Seeing through one eye we see so much, we can see the neutral yin-yang of life take form in front of us.

Appearing as a nighthawk among the dusky mist, she comes forth and bids listen to what she says.

“Distant travelers, how far have you come?” She asked in a heavenly psalm.

“Twenty-seven years, nineteen days and nineteen hours.” I said in return to her intimate ponderence.

She grounded her wings at my reply and all at once I began to regret, ever following my dreams to the mythical Lyon’s den.

“Do not fain Rose, you are here to be taught.” She said, obviously soothing my unspoken thought.

“If Doug the Mischievous will come down from there I will teach you two why you are here.

Climbing the wall is not the obstacle you think it is. The real challenge is to overcome your personal fears.”

Doug slid slowly down to the ground, without any harsh movements or the expected ending pound.

We sat like children, we felt like the youth of old and we listened to the Nighthawks story, breathlessly enthralled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nighthawk’s Word’s

 

When your feelers are hurt, do you not feel?

When your bleeders are bled, do you not heal?

When you hear what you want do you not hear?

When you see what’s not there do you not fear?

Do not deny yourself the unknown.

Do not deny yourself your crown.

Do not hold back on your own self worth.

Do not hold back on your symbolical birth.

You are the chosen of your generation.

You are two of thousands to follow this passion.

Many and many have trailed their own call here.

Many and many have scaled that firm wall there.

The Lyon’s den has waited a millennia for the few.

The Lyon’s den has waited centuries just for you.

You two have been chosen to lead the rest

You two humans have been labeled the best of the best.

So here you are and your last test has arrived.

Pass this test and your sure to survive.

 

Then the Nighthawk flew into the sky and vanished and we stared blankly where it had been landed.

We turned our heads and looked at each other, and each saw in the others eyes a pure look of wonder.

Lightening crackled deep within our bones and we had faith that this was our only way home.

 

We reached out with one foot and suddenly underneath us we felt the ground start to move. We felt the ground start to rise behind us, tilting in front the ninety-degree groove.

Never hesitating our feet touch the sheer wall and we feel the slight move turn into a pivoting fall.

Its as if we had the strength of a mountain, the strength of the earth, lending us pure untainted power to overcome this symbolical birth.

Together our right feet push firmly against the smooth stone wall and behind us the ground we’ve been walking on stands up for its final call.

Farther and farther we move the degrees beneath us. The task is simple now that we have the gained trust.

The all seeing mind which was so hesitant in the beginning, speaks in both of our ears verbally delivering.

A message of sincere contributions, a note of unbridled faith, speaking of trust immaculately lighting the way.

 

 

Now we stand on the sheer wall beneath us, garnishing what we have overcome, with bits of gratitude and grandeur with a metaphorical pat on our back just for fun.

Again we set out across the land, the clean stone beneath our feet. When we come to a deepening crevasse with one point before us and spread out like a V.

“Is that the place we have come to find?” asked Doug-Doug with a blithe tone in his mind.

The place he meant lay before us on the horizon, twinkling glory and giddiness and equally blessing our eyes with, vision with sight with allegorical powers, blessing our souls with confidence and delivering our final hours.

“Yes my friend it is…” I said answering his unspoken thought,”…this is the edge of the Lyon’s den; this is the place we’ve dreamt about.”

Watching the Lyon’s den before us, a solar flare halos its peak, blanketing our bodies with soothing jubilance instantly lighting our wandering fleet.

 

 

Doug and I take the left path and measure out the last of our journey in miles. Following the edge of the hole to our right, we trudge onward barely holding back gasps and stifles.

The delicacy that shone down upon us somewhere above the crags and grey mist, was a phosphorescence that bathed us inside incandescent bliss.

We feel exulted tremendously, we feel astonished by the substance, swirling around us purposely letting its essence engulf us.

We can feel an apparition on the gust, a specter of wind and trust, a presence of elemental fortitude, delivering our way, our pathway through.

Enlightened with every step we take, the closer we get to the Lyon’s gate.

We stand firm and fast to except our fate in this unknown place, on this unknown date.

We conquered the perplexing impassible thoroughfare of existence; we’ve ascended into enchantment, the kingdom of firmament.

 

The penultimate moment is upon us tall we stand at the Lyon’s gate, while watching in the sky above us, fractural images take adorning shapes.

The bars before us sigh with the color of golden orange, and divulge in spreading wide insisting that its here we forage.

Beyond the gate lay Baker’s park a silly and misconstrued place if we ever saw one. The man in charge was the captain himself, a dangerous man if you taunt him.

“Ello me fine buc’o’roos me fine duets of mine, answer me this, can the pipe pippa pipe if he’s dead half the time?

I know, I know I don’t expect an answer, it’s too risky by right I should expect only laughter.”

Then he blew into a fit of his own, and as fortune has it, Captain C laughed his way home.

As he galloped away on an imaginary horse, Doug and I are determined and we stay firmly on course.

 

 

 

We make our way through this heavenly park, traversing many paths, and listening to a lark.

The paths themselves seemed to flicker every which way, as if they were put there to keep the goal at bay.

We press onward not even minding where we walked, so much beauty around us but we would not stop to talk.

The base of the den, angelically is in sight, choruses ring out in our approaching delight.

The color is that of a sunset with its preternatural shades and hues, ranging from deepest violet to a soft rosy fuse.

Its breathtaking immensity stuns with perplex, a compound of emotions I can not begin to neglect.

In harmony a voice rings out, all knowing and sublime, it said, “You’re the only ones that can hold your heads up high.”

The voice of the Lyon’s speaks proud and true, holding our heads up to the filigree doors, they let us through.

 

 

 

We stand before the everlasting as the martyrs of our youth, prepared and faithfully bowing, paying homage to the two.

Firm as sandstone and fervidly unknown, the Lyon and the Lyoness crouch steady. Their beauty and vision proclaim a lure and in our hearts, they know we’re ready.

Mist, grey and dark around the Lyon’s feet congeals motion constantly; it keeps them separate from the rest of the world preventing and keeping harmony.

“We are awestruck by your beauties Pride, we are humbled by your call. What is is that you would ask of us we will do anything at all.”

I said in a quickened fashion, anxious to fulfill. The Prides reply was simple and quickly sealed the deal.

“Rest son’s of Adam, rest and enjoy your room. Your journey is over my sons, you are finally home.”

Author's Note

My only atempt at Prose Poetry.

Reviews

[Cluff]

Tell me about it! lol I used this piece one night at open mic night. It took me about 20 mins to read aloud. Thanks for the review.

[LJW]

IMHO, way too long to hold interest formatted in this way.

Perhaps a story.