He follows you, silent
Gliding, dark-cloaked, invisible
As whispering eddies in the night.
Through streets shrouded
In simple shadows, and light
As pallid as the Sun in winter
Kissed skies.
Across cobble and path,
Through doorways abandoned
As cold as hoar-frost mornings
Creeping tentacles brushing
A shoulder of flame.
In ancient corners, windowless
Led deep within a labyrinth moon,
A face forms shapes melts
Features upon your flesh,
A windless sea carries call to home
Acceptance sighs to welcome.
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This is extraordinary Chris! It gives me chills an I am in love with the language.
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Thank you very much for such an affirming response. I’m delighted that this affected you.
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I like the sounds your words make, howling like winds through trees.
Kudos. I’m impressed, Chris.
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Thank you. I appreciate your feedback and am delighted that you enjoyed this.
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Welcome. Well-deserved.
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Flows so beautifully!
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Thank you very much.
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“As cold as hoar-frost mornings
Creeping tentacles brushing
A shoulder of flame.”
I found these lines stopped me.
The imagery spoke to me and sits juxtapose earlier imagery of invisibility yet things can become invisible not through physical qualities but by familiarity of always being present.
These lines are striking in their imagery and I especially like the last two lines because they remind me of frostbite or ice burns.
Such an evocative write Chris!
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Thank you, Maggie, for such an insightful response. I am delighted that this touched you, and yes, the familiar, like an old friend, can become invisible. We all carry something with us that others (and perhaps ourselves) cannot or do not wish to acknowledge.
Your thoughts are much appreciated.
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You’re most welcome Chris.
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