Mattress of two dragons

The limit of a body against the odds of life,
The cry of loneliness that echoes in the dark.
Writhe against the mattress of place and time alike.
A fire burns within, till its latest ash.

Hands of mist that loom, bead of pearly sweats.
A serpent lies within, silent and dorment,
Growling from its pit, filling with desire
A beast that grows in wake, it stretches and it fires.

Inside, the deepest red, the pitiful poor hell,
In dream of only clouds, and air, and of wind,
As bodies crush the limit, discover hidden wings,
In pairs rise and drift; against the sun, them stars.

A strangled cry of pain, that distance can’t subside,
Has risen from the space, that stretches and compress.
It aches in all its power, all air burns a mark
That only flesh and heat could help so to supress.

And after beastful fight, yet higher and yet far,
When rush has broken limits and it has turned to haste,
Lay slain two bonded dragons, one real and one dream,
One black that reaches stars, one white that burns of red.

The tails silent brush, and it all finds its worth;
The black one found its day, the white its darkened mist,
And yet, as world exists, they stay a solid twist.
If it was to vanish, they’d be a heaven’s dream.

Sky and Sea

The sky unfolds upon the sea
As turbluent as full of glee,
Grinning at the hurried waves
Rushing, running from their graves.

The stormy gray of higher winds
Of dark and death does bear hints,
Hurricanes and swirls of air
Giving sea their black glare

Gray above and gray beyond
This is what makes darkness fond
But as end they will stay calm
Sooth to eyes and soul’s balm.

Gray on gray or blue on blue
There will always stay, those two,
Sky and sea, eternal friends,
Standing infinite of ends.

Pieces of you

We walk around with pieces of you,
A string of something that connects us,
Usually invisible. It only start to shimmer
With a careless gesture. An automatic word.
They are things that trip up our body,
Making us pause a second after we do them,
At the physical feeling of unfamiliarity.
But they are old friends to our minds,
So we suppose we must have imagined it
And we go on, none the wiser.
They are things that make others blink strange
Because in our place flashes another face
For just a split second of recognition.
But they don’t know why, don’t see the strings,
So they assume they’re just tired,
And they go on too, none the wiser.
I do know though. I’m used to standing back
And watching. Following the patterns.
So I can see it when the strings shimmer
And I can follow them straight back to you.
It’s strange. A little impossible.
Just like yourself, I suppose,
If you could possibly have so many pieces
To have so many to give away,
Plant them inside us, and let them grow.
Wait. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?
Maybe you’re not that impossible.
Maybe every piece grows by itself,
And we only need the seed of one each.
Because I’ve watched you too.
You have other strings, running the other way,
Pieces of other people that make you up,
Some of them that you gave to us too,
Connecting us to people we’ve never met,
An ancestry of similar strangers,
A family of unknown friends.
And surely they – they couldn’t have
Such an infinity of pieces
To pass on to you to pass on to us.
I like that thought. The idea that it won’t stop
And I’ll be passing on pieces of you too,
While I’m passing on pieces of myself.
That you’ll know people before you even meet,
And I’ll understand pieces of strangers
That follow a string of somebody else
That you connected me to in the beginning.
I should thank you – thank you for the chance,
For your strings, and for your pieces.
But most of all, thank you for letting me
Turn them into my own strings, and my own pieces.