Between the stars

I am hunger, fierce dark, and unending.
A wanderer curst, a traveler alone.
The keeper of the broken beyond mending,
kind companion to those who die unknown.
The solo, singular, the solitary,
they feed me, and I thank them for their pain
with gentle whispers of death, necessary
the beauty of blood, red fallen like warm rain.
I was the King of Night, I losses shadow.
The Lord of those who walked the burning stones,
whose hollow souls howled out their endless anguish,
whose knees I forced, sweet bent before my throne.
I once was King of Night and shall again be,
When those who threw me down lie, soul dead, before me.

King of infinite space

Oh that this too too solid flesh should...

but that's not it.

no.

falling -
fallen -
fallen into darkness.
where it waits.
knife toothed,
razor hungry.
a hungered emptiness
which cannot be filled,
tho the fear be endless
and the terror
a well
eternal
unstopped.

Quelle.
Spring.
Source.

There is a blackness,
and there is,
deeper still,
a blackness -
that is more
than the mere absence
of light.

There it waits.
it waits.
it waits.

Dreaming.
I am dreaming
I dream,
waiting.

It waits also,
there
in the space
in between.
darker than ravens wings
on moonless nights
in unstarred
empty
skies.

Shall I take flight?
or does it smell my fear?
like a bloodhound
in the spooling vortices
and eddies.
currents of time
turbulent as the wind
over the mountains
where it waits
at the end of every path.

In that sleep of death
what dreams may come?

It found her there
she was the first
and
I found her
and touched her
and received the gift
of her pain.

Damn the cat.

When I
was a child I had dreams
of The Dark City

The City of Night

I feared the city
its emptiness
its vastness
the endless labyrinth
(King Minos in all his pride
never dreamt of such)
of its streets
boulevards
avenues
The childs nightmare
of being lost
in a strange place
far from home.

I want to go home.

and by a sleep to say we end -

but we do not.
I do not.
it is neither here
nor there.
I carry it with me
and I draw it after.

And so it fears me
and desires me
an accident of fate

no more.

Damn the cat.

I saw them against the sky
the two of them
not believing
not believing
not one word.

But they couldn't pin it on me
They didn't know how she died
they couldn't figure out the how.

I knew.
I know.
But could not,
cannot,
tell them
for my tongue is tied.

Damn the cat.

And even could I speak -
they would not believe.

They're of the world,
they're in the world,
and will not see
the places
in between.

So now
they watch me
and they wonder
about the others.

Escapement

Catch,
and pawl.
subdivide the circle.
in incremental steps,
through a pendulums
slow -
arc -

Catch,
and pawl.
Galileo watches
the chandelier
swinging slowly.
Timed
by his heartbeat,
arc -
and amplitude.
pulse -
and period.

Catch,
and pawl.
or a crown wheel,
toothed
catching the movement,
of time.

Catch,
and pawl.
a sound.
the spring
the weight
winding down
like a ball down a stair.
potential
sweeps the face
black numeraled.
enameled black hands
finger pointed
waiting
waiting.

Catch,
and pawl.
The black empty sky
not pin pierced
by stars.
no clue
no motion
no time.

Catch,
and pawl.
No moon
new
nor
full
nor
hunters
no waxing
no waning
above the city
of night.

Catch,
and pawl.
Caught
here,
a moment
like cats claws
in wool.

Catch,
and pawl.
clocks have faces
like people
and always
some part
concealed.

Catch,
and pawl.
Time passing
is the tearing sound
of teeth
biting seconds

Catch,
and pawl.
the scythe
and swish
of pendulums
endlessly falling
into darkness.

cold december, dark hours

she glows in the darkness

silvers glimmer in the shadow

lambent as moon's light

refracted through thin clouds.

winters cold night.

december -

december.

when dark the hours stretch,

stretch out countless,

countless endless infinite,

infinite waiting.

he is there, spark leads him,

bright, she, catlike waited.

for his eyes will see now,

now, see through

shadows wall.

awakened, footfalls

footfalls echo

echo quiet

back and forth

red bricks vertical,

here in the place

where horses slept waited,

waited till she should return

return home in the night

what mother would

wish this for a daughter.

time and love

gone beyond

lost, forsaken.

she stood, stands there.

stands, where they left her

then safe, no risk

to make her own way

to the place where she,

was.

He -

It -

came to that place

by as chance,

as she.

friends and the night

in the place of music

they had gathered,

together there.

walking then to where

the minstrels sang

dancing, in celebration.

she was warm,

then,

she is not,

now.

she, still as stone.

hands raised,

supplication -

supplication -

prayers, hands,

on assyrian walls,

in the gesture of the fallen,

the captured,

the lost.

wrists bound together -

I kneel before the One

who holds my life,

in his hands.

Or to ward off the blow

as it falls.

it is the gesture -

Please do not demand of me

what is in your power,

to deliver.

bright, the spark waits, silent,

waiting.

who has led him here.

who thought it was but a dream,

from which he will awake

to find sun, light, day,

life -

waiting.

not nightmare

He is confusion,

now uncertain,

who sees upon her face,

so still,

so cold,

traces where

mascara has run

with her tears

(ran with her tears)

oh sweet child, how came you here?

eyes now closed,

now closed,

and still.

What dream is this?

he thought, thinks?

I thought,

I was dreaming.

I think I,

am dreaming,

dream.

bright, the spark waits, silent,

waiting.

he must touch her face

touch her face

touch

where her salt tears,

ran, slow drops falling.

such fear he has never seen

writ so, upon something

so beautiful.

she had been beautiful.

was beautiful, still.

silver she glimmering

in the dark before him.

shadows wall rise,

black bricked vertical.

there was hunger

in this place.

now reaches out
one finger

to brush

- touch

back

a hair

- touch

one hair

- touch

from her face
- touch

reaches out,

slowly

It is hunger

It is hunger

empty

void

it waited chained to the center

where time stood - still.

can there be waiting

in the place where is no time?

There was once such a place,

in the dark between the stars.

where the carbon wind slowed,

stopped.

a balance point.

a zero sum.

There was it imprisoned.

to fade slowly,

slowly.

so there forgotten,

unremembered,

untolled.

till the scribed tales decayed,

forgotten.

the guards asleep,

and still as death.

pendulum, slow swing,

measures time in the curve

of a perfect arc, subdivided.

an escapement ticking.

a beating atomic heart.

light being ageless

exists only while in motion

departs now

arrives now

traverses 0 distance

therefore completes no journey

it is here, now.

it is there, now.

neither departing nor arriving

existing only while in motion

in stillness light finds death.

yet all that is, ages.

ages and forgets,

a slow effacement.

for memories are,

until they are not.

And so a mind asks,

why am I - here?

and not - there.

not a wave.

waves traverse

yet do not change,

that which bears them.

so that through which one passes,

always returns to the place,

where it began.

in some other place,

at some other time,

a wind began to blow.

first furious,

tearing apart even the stars

in its path.

till spreading outward

through the darkness,

time passing gentles.

until, where hunger waiting,

came from one side,

pressure.

slowly

slowly.

so it begins to move,

to drift.

No longer zero sum.

direction enters.

time begins again.

with drifting,

dead newton speaks in motion.

the watchers,

silent,

still,

move also.

blown before the wind,

this way and that,

drifting.

hunger moves,

past the balance point.

finds again,

-gradients

-potentials

-winds

-currents

-turbulence

it is not,

yet it is,

between.

time passing again, there is no thought.

only hunger,

emptiness,

void.

thought will come later.

after feeding.

The Street of Books

There are many streets in the City of Night.

Some straight as arrows flight on a still day.

Others curve serpentine upon themselves,

celtic knotting such a twisted topology

that he can never be certain he has again

returned to the place where he began.

Some barely shoulder wide,

even sideways turning.

Others great avenues,

broad and endless,

whereon all the armies that ever were

might pass on revue,

eternally
on their way,

unquestioning,

to whatever doom awaits them.

There are roads which climb hills

Escher like, that have no summit.

Endless they spiral,

with no beginning

and no end.

He has walked them slowly

many nights, until dawn waking

set him free,

back to the daylit world

of beginnings,

and endings.

There are the avenues

of once great houses,

Victorian, Edwardian. Elaborate.

Gaudy painted ladies,

shingled walls,

and slated roofs

now fallen into disarray.

Age stained, mildew gray.

Tall vacant windows, rotted curtains,

face empty streets, where no one walks,

save him.

Of some streets,
he seems to remember,

ghosts of trees.
Stark bare branched

unleafed, fingers dead reach upward,

deep rooted in soil which has never

known life.

Nor sun.

Nor rain.

Unbarked like the failing elms

he knew as a child

walking the streets
of the waking world,

before some strange disease

had girdled them unseen,

left them standing

to slowly die.

There are no living colors there.

It is a place of brown and grey,

faded red ancient brick,

Dull yellow, grey rose.

Colors of things

left too long in a sun

that has never shone.

the faded, grayed, unliving colors,

of stillness, of silence, of waiting, of death.

Then one night he awoke

to find himself standing,

upon

The Street of Books.

It is wide,

The Street of Books.

running die straight

between tall embankments

of dark green grass rising.

from the granite curbed street.

To each house

a granite stair

iron railed,

flights upward

to a great, dark, six panel door.

Iron hinged and iron latched.

which stands closed

in the center

of the heavy buildings.

some of stone.

some of brick.

The Street of Books

is lit in amber,

which casts no shadow,

and it has no sky.

He remembers his first time

there he found himself

standing centered in the street

where he had never

been before.

to either side buildings

that were not houses

and of which no two

were alike.

except in two details -

a great, dark, six panel door,

center.

flanked each side,

by tall windows,

of crystal glass.

Perfect.

Flawless.

Impervious.

Unbreakable.

Some two stories.

Some three.

Climbing

the broad granite steps

upward

a much greater distance

than it seemed

from the street

he found at the top

a pavement of slabbed

polished

dark strange stone

linking the stairs

which lead to the doors

iron hinged and latched

six panel doors

of wood

dark as mahogany

doors which are locked

like so many things in the City of Night.

doors for which he has

no key.

So he looked into the window

and saw there

books.

Floor to ceiling,

shelves and shelves,

of books.

Octavo -

Quarto -

Folio -

bound in leather

bound in parchment

bound in cloth

gilded

in a rainbow of colors

stretching away from the windows

as far as he could see.

He went again to the door

locked

he walked to the next building

to look through the windows

to see the same.

and he knew

that in there

was the thing he needed

in one of those books

he would find the key

he began to run

door to door

locked -

locked -

locked.

Screaming frustration

he would have thrown

a rock through a window

but there were no rocks there.

and he would discover

later

that the glass would not break

no matter what force

was brought to bear.

But there answer is in there

he knows it.

If only he can find the key.

Winged Night

Winged night, swift pinioned, moon polished.

Awakes, swift lofts from Eldests shoulder.

Wings sailset, black bright.

True Navigator he,

of the Night Ocean.

Moon lit, Star dusted,

story keeper, story teller.

Claw catcher of Dreams.

Winged night, black beaked, the watcher.

Bearer of thought, memories house.

Sharp honed ear sent forth to listen

to Dreams freesailing

upon the Night Ocean.

The children of Gods,

the spawn of Monsters,

await, fear, the Dawn.

Winged night, Message bearer, Star keeper.

Born of the World Tree.

Blackbright, Thought of the Father.

First born of She,

Mother of the All. Who rode

stormtossed, the chaos void,

before First Thought brought forth

the world of time.

Winged night, pathfinder, wayfarer.

Sword eyed, taloned blacksharp

to catch swift

the fleeting Dreamships.

Messenger between the worlds he.

Nightblack, pinions wide,

Wings windswift above

the Nightdark Sea.

Winged night, tale teller, dream catcher,

nighteyed, to the West

spies empty, a Ship of Dream.

Sailtorn, rudder pintle lifted,

storm wracked, tear stained, kingpinned,

uncaptained. Hull cargo filled

with Soul-death, thought destroyer,

He, banished at First Light.

Winged night, tale teller, memory's keeper.

Stormblack clawed, bright star tipped,

swiftcatches the Dream Ship, deathfilled,

edgepoised at Dawns shining edge.

Touches not the cargo, nor spills.

Bears swiftwinged home the Dream Ship, Death Ship.

Rides blacksilver swift, the River of Dawn.

To the Great Hall, where Eldest sits dreaming.

Winged night, storm cryer, secret keeper.

Black winged, Dawnbright uplifted.

Talonbearer, holds wracked, soul dead,

the Dreamship life empty,

to the Hall of Fire and Gold,

where Eldest waits dreaming.

At his feet, nights red embers,

fire bright, fly sparking upward,

to quicken, newborn, on the River Dawn.

Winged night, swift pinioned, sun polished.

Returned finds now swift shut before him,

The Four Gates of the Mighty Hall,

with the shout of Ten Thousand Warriors.

North, finds Cold, the Winter Gate.

South, where Sun and Fire wait.

East, where Day comes forth, the Dawn.

West, from whence The Dark is drawn.