Who would read The Wishing Tomb Pt.1 and Pt. 2 as a single piece? Who could?
For those brave enough, here is:
The Wishing Tomb (full length)
Really could have done with anyone getting out of anything alive.
Watch dust motes trickle on a sun shard stream, all is in vain.
Consider the jewel of a breath, consider the paltry matter a bauble.
Screw the tap but know congealing blood tumult laps in the darkness.
Disturbed coil of cobalt night unwinds into the settling blonde wheat field.
Spirit, fragile as water film tension, gently heaves top the twilight lake.
Time leaves Fate softly suffering and bubbling in its wake.
The distress is warm. Warm on the body.
Fresh shine washes on the back. On the front. Pressing from above.
There is never any comfort in endings: Endings are snapped continues.
I thought this was a lacquered stop, but it is perfectly permeable despondence.
I thought this was the bottom, but it is a Mezzanine.
Thunder barrel clouds cut, lightning bolts lash on the scene.
The immenseness outside this chamber creaks but remains unseen.
Wretched is this monument to my muse of Tragedy, sculpted by familiar hands, ruined to stone.
Still is this tomb which weathers against all under an electrocute sky: place of my grief.
Like the light bulb buzzing at the end of a long windowless corridor,
I flick into and out of life.
At once solace and direction and panic and confusion.
Come for me, flee for me.
Nothing but a glint of a glimpse of a moth’s fluttered glance.
A magic tempts another.
Settle yourself at the feet of the tomb, it’s a long way to travel,
Rest here in the tranquil.
Loss is worshipped when it chooses a glitter form
As ruin can fool as warm.
Listen to the orbit of the moon, each mare introduced
Save, don’t be seduced.
I say of my loss: do not let these snake hips of mine distract you,
Left hand believes in poetry:
Fingers like reeds yielding to an evening breeze,
Conducting sign of the Cross,
All the while a forked tongue lashes at your collar bone,
Tasting the salty nape.
Daylight is fading now, or is it the night thawing from the sky,
Either one, it is welling with trauma.
The limp, searing and relentless inevitable
washes like Shore surf, rattling pebbles.
This naked mortality is flat out, glittering on the cold table,
snapped continues
The pillars speak soft: overwhelmed, dear boy, simply overwhelmed,
It’s alright: we comprehend.
And even if we do not and it is not: it matters you not.
Be lured, be repulsed.
To this tomb both as adversary and testament to motion.
Wishes walk no further: Place of my grief.
