The Citrine Cross (Sleeping Beauty)

A poem written in a hotel room the day before returning to school while listening to a particular song over and over again and thinking about the tangible qualities of darkness. The pictures came, and I wrote them down in time to the music.

 I have dreamed of Sleeping Beauty in the dark-

In the dark where no light shone except

the lantern glow of my mind.

No sliver of moonlight was in the sky

indeed, covered with clouds it was and there might well have been no sky at all 

but a solid slate of sightless rust. 

And in the beam of my vision amidst the tangible darkness

were flowers-

glowing as I came upon them 

vividly. 

 

There, petals grew in defiance of the gloom.

Their vines thick as trees, thorns like daggers with a mind to seek and hunt

Slow but persistent, eyeless, and  keen. Curling

around the ancient remnants of pillars

smoked marble stone and the dull ivory of 

bone. There was a castle. 

A castle, dead as it was hollow and littered

with corpses of statuary angels. 

 

Those flowers devoured all. They were old; old as

 sin. The formless wood of ages past clawed

 its way around the forms of the dead

wooden hands clutching reaching for now forgotten daylight. No 

sun would shine in this place again. Forever

has it stood in timeless shadow.

 

And in my mind, these loving roses bloomed with a predatory 

fondness of their trellises- the kind of sick forgiving

kindness as only the righteous have, their task preordained.

Some sorceress was mighty in her wrath, their growth is glutted

on a once great kingdom. I travel

freely over the ruins and always the blossoms and never

have I seen softer violence, or fiercer beauty than these.  

 

In a gentler world than that of my mind

this palace is filled with the sleeping courtiers of its heyday 

peaceful and whole. But those that sleep forever

are consumed just as the dead are- and as roots

grew into their skin their dreams were no doubt

restless. As mine are. 

 

I follow the trials of silvered wood up, up- towers 

mighty stone towers in the velvet black. Sparks

of my light shine off the blooded stems 

and I am awed. They grow thickly here

larger, and grotesque in their size. 

What once man created is overwhelmed

and in its place is a pedestal of nature. 

Out of a bed grows a tree, 

and its branches are a nest, ingrown and tangled in the high ceiling. 

No canopy above, but curled inwards at its center 

I find my prize a massive bloom of pinks and white

and above its heart the thorns uphold 

A Princess. 

 

Eerily she hangs, a white embroidered dress still

bound around her perfect corpse

the thorns have picked her clean in repose.

A rose grows from the hole of her eye and 

delicate spirals of green curl in the mouth 

of her skull. I can see her hair was bitter gold. 

Time has not been stilled for her legend 

and though this is so, I find her still

graceful

in death, as befits her.

 

I brush away a lock

 of stilled hair in the wet and tremulous air

and kiss her lipless mouth

which shudders, clicking- 

a fragile sound, True Love. 

 

As the vines peel back an eye remembers itself

And winks with hesitant disuse.  It is blue as lilacs

Once the thorns retreat into her bones.

Her head twitches back into place with care

And sleepily she recalls her skin.

I wait patiently as the flowers curl inside her, becoming

A part of her still-partial form,

elegant in  bone and

blushing in flesh.

 

 A prince I add for her benefit,

to rise and touch her recovered

Lips, purple and fair.

The kingdom will perhaps not let her go so easily, and

She will ever be a bride of flowers first

And flesh second.

Flushed and bleeding , pale

 and veined with gold her skin

stretches over a mould of living thorns and petals.

 

I bring her gently, blinking,

into the sunlight

to bud.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[SM Davis]

In a gentler world than that of my mind
this palace is filled with the sleeping courtiers of its heyday
peaceful and whole. But those that sleep forever
are consumed just as the dead are- and as roots
grew into their skin their dreams were no doubt
restless. As mine are.

THIS IS FANTASTIC! Your imagery here is impeccable. Your wistful words as regailing (sp??) a recollection are soft and yet I feel the pull. Your ending of this poem was faultless.

[emmajoy]

This is truly beautiful, incredible... it conjurs up a succession of pictures in the mind... you have a wonderful skill.

If I say any more, I'll say too much.

SUPERB

[Rambling Prose]

The imagery in this magnificent write, has rendered THIS little lady - speechless! Your grasp on the English language far exceeds - PHENOMENAL! At the tender age of eighteen, you bear a much older soul. Dare I say, you might well be, a literary genius! (at least I think so)

I read through, at least three times - and I'll be returning to read it again and again. I love EVERYTHING about your style. You wield the pen like an 18th Century romantic with quill in hand.

Thank you for sharing this magical journey...