An overly worded allegory about how the sun will rise after a death

In ways this is the reflection of Life Flashes into Rolling Death - A something that offers hope after it. It's my most hopeful work yet.

It is a little wordy though. This is my effort at a stream of consciousness like Michael Stipe.



This is about the great cosmic truth.

Irina Ionesco - Sylvia Kristel, ca. 1980

This is:
An overly worded allegory about how the sun will rise after a death

Like a log from the woodpile,

I take a day and toss it onto the fire.

It jags itself into the melee, gripping fast so that it makes a dull knock.

A chuff into the white ash remains and the dying warmth is shocked alive.

The log draws back its jagged, cracked lips, hissing a sneer from within the consummation.

“You can burn truths from me only once”

….

Peppermint green lichen sprigs along the log curl with flecks of gold

cutting from thermals.

Tiny fires spiral upwards and zip out of existence hither and thither.
Rings softly blacken in the lazy heat and I wonder at the catch.

….

The catch latches as it studies the form

and flames appear as if summoned from the loose veil.

The bark bends in a stretch of cracking ecstasy.
Glorious and painful sounds:
A firecracker whipped – once, twice – three times quick!
Short puffs of smoke.
Like a cornered man who paid for the bullets getting his shots fired off.
A hazy, stinging, spice science scent mixed with mellow nature entwine in the air.
They catch my breath and sting terrible water from my eyes.
….
There is fizz from the rings, a dry boiling.
Flames emerge through the log.
They shiver as springing new-borns and quickly find their confidence
blooming into thin petals, with roots, feeding on the log.
Flimsy threads, with the precision of a surgeon and the intent of a back alley ripper
....
The flame incants:
drumming and throwing quick dash shapes almost recognisable in glow.
Firelight splashes uneven surfaces in strokes and smears of rich oranges and warning reds.
Arteries form on the char wood.
Lava lines pulse through the block.
It is being used up by the hot death in a cauldron of lurid stroke marks.
….
Low now. Low.
The pastel fire cares little for the log now they are well acquainted.
Ammonia pink and eggshell blue at the heart base of the hearth.
A molten, swirling pearl from the Indian Sea.
Flames:
languid and calm from a veteran heat, settle on the log.
A darkness is in fire, a flame is not all bright – a black root fuels the deepest leaf.
….
Dark, darker still the day:
the black oil blues of a crow’s feather.
The work of a deep violence, captivating and purifying in the deathly swallow.
It spits and spritz final curses from between those jagged, singed lips.
….
The morbs drape over me like a heavy woollen rug wrapping tight round me.
My soul:
still warmed from the primordial fire – the log – now fully black of soot in the hearth.
Heat has melted this weighed monochrome rug of morose into round, dark droplets.
Then I watch as they too melt, to be absorbed and to scuttle about my grey being.
Touch:
the searing lancing truth of philosophy.
A thousand pin pricks.
Shadows:
bird wings forcing dead air down upon me.
A thousand flapping wings.
This melancholic fever, a gloom of urgency on my time, will not break.
For how long this mistress of my soul wants to keep me for her bidding,
I do not know.
I toss another log onto the fire.
….
Then first tentative light of a new day again.
It takes only a little point on the circumference of the turning,
burning sun for it to fill the room.
Waves hit the drawn thin yellow drapes, blushes into a diffuse, innocent yellow.
It fills this empty box, like I am living through the surface of light itself
I sit cross-legged in front of them like a screen projecting pure unshaped wonder at me.