No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea.
People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper. A fundamental disconnect. They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors. A disassociated realm of pieces and things all
existing in isolation. But this is never
the truth of an incantation, or a song. The
stars move as the sea is moved. In
rhythm. In concert. This is far more than a public dreaming, or
mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining. No, this is something I've fought for all my
life. The endless, violent wanderings of
a father. The quiet, noble battles of a
mother. The living legacy of a child. All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of
tears. All of us lost without one
another. I will never pretend to be
anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this
poet's heart. To know things one is not
supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see. This mystery. This tree of living signs, like a key to a
music box. A girl like a star beneath
the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal
realm and into the flesh once again. Renaissance.
The promise of future light. Like gazing into a magic mirror. Poetry and prosper. Rhythm and song. Painted wings, silver storms. Things we almost remember.
Your
mom pretends
She doesn't like me
But that's the story of my life
Still cheating on my husband
With my own loving wife
Pray I'm dynamic, interesting
Damn you if you think I'm not
My ice was truly the coldest
Back when I used to be hot
We know those beasts of burden
These games of plight and pawn
Bending over backwards
Tonight the knight of dawn
We teach like Saints of Camri
Back when you raided the tomb
It's kinda hard to have standards
Reading every mind in the room
Most people's morals are commas
Until a brighter design
But we want your full exclamation
If we enlighten your mind
Mar'kanna of Viir, the occulted ones
called her. The kissing knife. Palest raven, rising curious from illumined
text. They say that dreaming began, and
begins, at the Place of the Mori. Eye
within the eye. Earth within the earth. Seed and star, and tree. But the sky was betrayed, they say. The horizon broken. Lost promise of Eth'Ama, become fury in those
darkest days. Birth of the half-light. From Ama’s Well they came crawling. The wraith-born. Blackened bright ones. Falling lanterns of Eth'iir. The oldest scribes still whisper those lost legends.
Those hidden histories. Today, most mortals
call it the fabled Age of the High Middle. Renaissance. Painters, poets and storytellers. Faintest recollection of Imagining's War. The war of guardians and ghosts. But what's
left of that fabled shining Age? Only
this mutilated chronology. Eth'kanna
Mal. The death of light. You see, the pale Raven of Mori has many
names, some older than the stars themselves. Inherited in utmost secrecy since the Fell. Kiskuh of Vort'eth, some say. In her own tongue. Mortals aren't to dare. But some do. When Kai was just a boy, wandering the Fields
of Lud, she found him. Told him she was
more than a mere daemon of the old ways. In truth a living, eternal myth that had taken
many forms. One of those forms was
Priest of the Drowning Hill. Le Fay, as
the cursed twin had named her. An
epithet still used to this day. Ki'atur,
Kai'ether, Y'ashiri. Encircling the Tree.
Cults of the stellum, the temple and the
blood. Hear the raven now, almost
black-as-crown. Not to fear, but to
learn. The kissing knife, the once-wed summer
song. That we might yet alter the river’s
course, before it finds the sea. For behold, the kingdom is within.
"I was many things, People of
Y'ashiri. You assume lines of the past. Discreet boundaries between fiction and fact. But I assure you, there is nothing discreet
about me. Not then, not now. All your bridges are broken. All your brides. I know your blind, modern visions. The lakes of grey at the very edge. I've read all your pages, you see. I rather like your tales. Thoughtful,
frightening things. I wrote many of them
myself, truth be told. Whispering at the
shoulders of forgotten scribes. What do
you make of me, poets? Echoes of the
shining tryst still call to you, don’t they? Is it warranted in this fallen realm, I wonder? The dreamwalkers still watch over you every
night, in the countless broken temples of your sleep. Did you know that? Tell me, am I druid? Spirit of the sea? Witch or wanderer? Am I healer and guardian of the Oma'turi, or a
monster? Medieval confection, or
half-hidden mosaic? Are you certain that
you know the difference between an angel and a cursed twin? L'ashareth has been with you since the very beginning.
I still pray that Love will be enough in
the end, that such gallantry and insight will save us. Yet I cannot be certain. Are all the lost healers beyond healing now? Is my brother a fool? Is he completely mad, like his sister? Kill the knife, if you can. Protect the kiss. I would gladly drown for such mad, foolish
promise. But I am my sister's fury, even
now. I am the broken, raging cults of my
king.”
We have to find a way to not forget
them when we peer the glass. Blackest
clay in the riverbed. In the chlorophyll ghosts who still speak of first
churches. Is it enough? Ribbons of dancing light, burnished shields? I know it hurts to be reduced like this, my
beloved ones. Rewritten, overwritten. Epistolary bloodletting. A cataclysm of letters. Epigraph now to haunted text, neither heard
nor read. Nor understood. But we have to find a way to not forget each
other when we peer the glass. All Songs, all denominations and tribes. The
grey betwixt of living annunciation. Our
differences, our similarities. We make
wisdom with it. Or war. Shape, form and
fiction. Like the handling of serpents. The centre pleading hold. Vintage threads, staving mere anarchy. This reign we dream; hoping for the respite of
an imagined kiss. Is it enough, asks the
angel. This hushed, quivering tempest? These arcanum shores? The river always feeds
the heart. I know how much it hurts to
be reduced like this; constantly reimagining the world. Unable to forgive the difference between
knives and feathers unfurling at your back. These fractures between the mirror and the
poet's star. Ever shining. But we must forgive.We must find a way to honour the Spirit when we
peer the glass. Gold, of the streets and
the sea. Last and first churches. Undying crown beneath this cataclysm of
letters. We have spent too long trying not to see ourselves in colour. Who built these lands? I tell you now that Kasi is merely a servant. An emissary baptised in dreaming depths. Treasures of holy light glinting on the face
of the waters. Home is where the heart
is, and I am not greater than the river.
Love is a miracle in a realm where we
too often squander our gifts. Losing
sight of what truly matters, only for fate to sometimes shock us into a state of
reeling wakefulness. If we’re lucky
enough.Before the spellcraft of state
and their wraith-cults puts us to sleep again. Half-light and half-life. But there are things that can break the spell
of sleep, even here in this radiant abyss. A brush with death. An act of nature. The care of a new child. And suddenly we reawaken in a different way, a
greater way. More cognizant. Made humble and wide-eyed, petty distractions
fading in the light of this new wakefulness. We
finally recognise that we must become responsible in a far more powerful way. We can no longer wander semi-coherent through
the wreckage of our own mistakes. A
greater task awaits us. Love is truly a
miracle. Beyond shame or tragedy. We all want to believe in the promise of a
second chance, don't we? The healing poetry
of forgiveness? We often wonder what we
might do differently if fairytales were real and we could somehow find our way
back to that moment. But what if
fairytales were everything we desperately hoped them to be, and more? What if you could indeed go back? Would you love even greater? Would you find strength enough to humble
yourself and this time make the right choice? I cannot answer those questions for anyone
except myself. But I know things about the Earth that you don't, my beloved
ones. Strange, secret things. Ka'shayel is still shaken to his core every
time he opens his eyes to the Word.
The angel in me still weeps at our
fallen state. Make no mistake about
that. It still hurts to see all this
hatred and division. Brother raging
against brother, against sister. So far
from the shining ideal we once lived as common path-work. But eventually I came to realise the
truth. I can forgive my mortal brothers
and sisters for their lack of cultivated foresight, their vulnerabilities and
addictions to comfort. For not having
the strength and stamina to save themselves and each other. I love them too much to deny them that grace. But can I ever truly forgive myself for the
same? Dear ones, I’ve seen worlds
shattered and burning. Realm after realm
of brutal revelation. Civilisations
crumbling. There were times when I didn’t
know if I could go through this again.
Reliving the Last Day, over and over.
Accepting my limitations as well as my strengths. Suspended and mirrored in holy breath.
Who am I, really? A poet, an angel, a father? If I truly were a parent what would I want for
my children?I realize now that I squandered
too many gifts before I learned this answer.I would want to see my children courageous, kind and purposeful – and to
eventually die within sight of their struggles and their joy. When the time comes.Because the human heart still shines. Even here, among these fallen stars. I've seen it. I've witnessed that breath-taking magic. That poetry in motion. The sheer elegance of a soul in service to its
brethren. To not have all the answers,
or all the context, and to leave a lantern nonetheless. I understand it a little better each day. My Father loves me, I think, more than I can
even comprehend. Granting me a second chance.Stepping me from ruin to ruin, ashes to
ashes, until at last I touched down in a world where all is not lost. Where flowers still grow, rivers still run,
and the possibility still exists to be more than a grieving parent or a lost
child. A world where I get to see you
again.I think heaven is saving our
grace each day, despite the darkness and pain we contend with.Our love is still alive in this realm. Like a miracle.I know what that miracle means to me now, my
cherished one. It means I'm going to
keep giving everything I can, trying to treasure every moment. And then, one day, I'm going to close my eyes
at last. In sight of your struggles and
your joy.
Seeing through the iris of an angel
is only ever partial sight. The eyes of
eternity. Endless grey. Human lives are so immediate and fleeting. Abstracted, incandescent. How does one stay mindful of mortality when
we emissaries are the only things that endure? Reading every mind in the room, every book in
the library? We must fall in love each
time. The perpetual choir of human life.
The similarities, outliers and anomalies. The beauty in
each of them. The entire breadth and breath of creation can be found in
the songlines between violet and red. Did
you know? A perception built of living light.
Everything you know, and everything you
don't – an ocean of oscillating waves. Divinity,
made manifest. A galaxy dancing and
laughing, and laughing again. The
unfathomable art of our Father. Red is
the deepest wave among the visible, and violet the most subtle. Isn't it strange how the blood howls but the
crown whispers so gently? These things
are mysteries still, even to angels. We
are not exactly as portrayed in your many scriptures. We are so much greater than the petty squabble
and politic of Man. We are the Word of
God, made message. Given winged form. And yet, there is more truth in your
scriptures than you will ever know. Resounding
eternally through the imagination of Man. Stories told and retold. Every library, every culture and holy place. Still, there are lies among the truths of your
pages. I know it all too well. However, there are secrets beneath the sea
and beyond the sky. These are
the true altars of Ishkara. Beyond
bloodshed and sacrifice. Hear this, sweet
mortals. Our Father requires no killing,
nor the constant warring of his children. A warrior's place is to defend, not desecrate.
The sickening concerns of slavery and
genocide are never a true soldier's path. Hell on Earth is not the want of your brothers
and sisters. It is the want of the
wraiths that whisper at your shoulder and their dark priests who covet your
life-force. The earth is a church, my
dear ones. Not a vampire's lair. A holy garden was made for you in the
beginning. A place of rest, reflection
and healing magic. It should be
respected as such. Embrace this
immediacy. This fleeting flesh. It will all be over sooner than you think. I’m no better than my fellow man. Kasi yearns and bleeds and falters just as
you do. But I pay it gladly, this toll
of love. While we are here we must
treasure each moment, each glimmering soul. Every point of light shining in the sea of
endless black. The iris of an angel is
much like the songs that mortals sing. Ancient
and new. Steadfast and ever-changing. Starlight is incalculable, and yet it travels
far slower than poetry. Those distant stars
upon your eye? Many of them are ghosts,
holding loving vigil for the not-yet-departed. Did you know?
Portent comes in many forms. A courageous girl with footsteps of glass, or
a thoughtful boy alone at the ivory. Trying
to pick a lock of eighty-eight keys. The
lock of a thousand stars. I've seen that
kind of wonder held in the palm of angels far brighter than myself. Angels of mortal provenance suspended in the
place between fable and heartbreak. Remembrance,
as the true healers of lost Roma believed. To be loved, to be seen for the wild and
wilderness that we are. Each of us. To close your eyes when your beloved does. To close your eyes to the entire universe,
only to open them in union. Or as close
to union as a heart can venture. I've
walked beside each of you. The winged
unseen. Bright Star. The men and women we become. The lost children we’ve always been, and are
still trying so desperately to protect. Blessed
ones, it's not my place to guide your hands across the ivory or the fret. Nor my place to tell you what melodies mean. My place is simple compliment, never claim. I only listen, staggered by the grace I find
in those places where diligence meets spontaneity. Places where my friends truly bloom. Those fields and keys of lavender where I am humbled,
gladdened and taught.Like a kiss poised
so earnest and delicate in the reign of rising light. That's real study, I think. True scholarship. To be moved by the work of your friends, both
cherished and unmet. If I were any kind
of angel worth his salt I would reach for those kinds of footsteps and that
kind of thoughtfulness. Each day I would
pray and pledge to know more of those courageous hands in mine, half-hidden
though they seem. To earn respite from
this loneliness. To truly earn the kiss,
or the kind word.There is no greater
grace than a heart that wants to lift you; a heart that remembers you always.
