My Lost Virginia

Story/poem

It was hinged to the manifolds of rue and scarlet, pooling in the young maiden’s hand. Ghastly hewed, I could scarcely dim where once these two had wantonly paced familiar ports of village, hoping for a page and gift of meal.

Madness too dwells inside our countries, balanced against the mind with a flint and wool of voice. Hidden in the idle hours of daily swaying countering hounds. The eyes turn to fever and stalking, clear and streamed as a river formed from the colors yielded where affinity bodes as eve touches land.

 

These were but children in cold and songs of want. She, a haunting, bliss-scorned rose pulled and clipped to the bloom of frailty, plucked from his earth where she was thorn blushed under the warm Astarte. Looking aft, it would have been best to stand nigh and be rather a faithful stranger to love, stabled within and breast-fed from heaven’s boar; wandering over the absentee channels of what could be better served as a stoic memory.

Tears, at the bone as always the guardian’s reward.

  

Cadenced under the well known stars and sable were the miles misleading and well the jagged scars they left, thus too we all must bear; yet clearly this was a willing and open heart high in the breach and similar smiles bridled unto the page of loss.

A specter thin lit face that emanated within the beat of eventual darkness.

 

Oh, how my ears do ring when these voices of blithe chime out their moods in shy walks of masquerade; chiming a resonance of rasp that conceals our fate lying just below the currents of knowing sea. It wears a promise that eats at our ménage far too close to our same fatal dye. It chokes the heart inside and strangles out our breath in unfamiliar strangers of clothes.  

It arrives concealed in a dark-white heaven of carriage.

Dwelling on the outskirts of town; singing nightly prayers. It entombs the malicious horror and wine of tuberculosis. It swells from the rivers that drink dry of rivers… referendums of one that burn into days of sanity when all signs clearly lead out. Away from the diseased pathos of the masses gathering close in rabid froth.

 

I was never one born for these promises, nor was I akin for the melting nor neglecting of light; yet merely alone and adrift, loveless along the banks in the safety of anchorage; my vessel of thirst awaiting the coming drought. In the reflection therein I discerned these words:

 “All may live well enough in time if only a slave scorned by the whips due to this life but when moored into deeper and unstill waters we become vested to seek out our momentary lands and dilute our elected visions of freedom.”

 

They were hinged, these days of life, to the grave and many inflictions of rue that pooled into the drops of red, gathering calm within the poor maiden’s lungs. 

Reviews

[charlie]

This is fine art reading, P. It's reminiscive. That is: it reminds me of something - not sure who, what, or where (just yet) and it reconstitutes the idea in this readers mind,. of how life imitates art etc, ..
Again you got the whole gathered intent, and concentration going on in this writing and it composes itself in a grand, yet tastefully 'subdued' (?) way. Like a stateliness.

...... Yes.

[Perdition]

Thanks charlie. Entering through the collected unconscious has always been a more rewarding walk for me. It will be interesting to see what does surface from the reveries of your deja vu here. Poet to poet is sometimes the best of editing...sometimes not. In this case I feel it most certainly IS as you are "honest" as well as a gift to quill and I certainly appreciate your walking in time and effort as well as your kind words.