Days in dream fabric

From: An Owl on the Moon - August

 Silent circling seabirds stroke the air.  Beneath their shadows granite statues line the shore.

     This girl with her golden hair speaks with her eyes and hands but I cannot hear.  The brilliance of light engulfs us.

 

Alabaster walls;

a cardinal ceiling.

Solemn statues fill the void.

I turn to her eyes.

Eyes of hunger, eyes of rage,

a dying horror in a cage.

Freedom cries without a voice;

a muted scream to stain her choice.

 

     “Be honest in your waking times or the truth will haunt your dreams.”

     “You speak...I did not know you were able.”

     “I have always spoken.  You simply could not understand.  But I am dream fabric here.  In this place, the impossible is probable.  This moment is yours.”  With this she turns to face a statue and becomes stone.

     “Please.  Would you speak to me again?  Why do I find you here?” I say.  “Here in this wasteland I am barren and empty.  Have you no word for me?”

     Grey stone becomes flesh.

 

“A pebble thrown in a pool

may ripple from end to end,

but tossed into the sea,

it is swallowed by enormity.”

 

     A screaming silence surrounds us.  The waves claw the shore in hushed strokes.  My words claw at my throat.  “In silent words, you speak so much.”

     “And you, though you speak volumes, say precious little.  Don’t you know that words are actors set in motion, and you are the playwright.  They can create a mood of harmony or destroy peace in violent isolation.  Words are civilians or soldiers; artists or autocrats; worshippers or pagans.  They make you rich or sell you into poverty.  Master them and you rule, or be mastered by them and serve.”  

Author's Note

From: An Owl on the Moon - August

Reviews

[Harriet.Lising]

Words are indeed powerful. Your poem is wonderful. 😮🤗

[An owl on the moon]

Thank you so much for your kindness and your presence here. 🤗