by j brooke
shall be a world of reticent dreams, of alchemy, of the music, the octaves of
the smiling of the cellos, the violas, and the violins; and the whisper of the
gray translucent water spectrum's spilling from a sky of eternal soul wept tears.
There will be
there will be streaks of silver shards in the night; globules of cold fire that
within a magnificent moment will whisper her name; and it shall be called our
mistress of beauty; and it shall be called life. For water is continuous and thus
a miracle; miraculous, a glimmer, glistening in jeweled goblets; a falling,
failing memory of pewter, of diamond light, of the love of the universe within
all of its shadows.
It shall be
gentleness; its silence; its rage; its elegance of mercurial sky moments;
within the barges of coal steamers burdened with fog, laddered to the hulls,
drenched, satiated of tears refracting every nuance of the sun, at times the
moon. She is the mother of all life.
Her liquid tresses
will transport such loveliness of moisture here; do you not see, not feel the
wetness of the other universes; and how she, the child from the pathos of the
darkness, calms our soul, graces our hearts with cold wept water strings that
bead upon our skin; mix, bide time, blend, and soar with the swallows of wet
white wings that fly and streak as tumultuous pearl rainbows towards the earth.
I do not know
things; but I pray I remember when the drips of platinum water drops fell from
the sky in innocence; a drizzle; a deluge; shy, petulant, mercury mirrors of
silver arrows; bows struck within gold, indigo, opal and moonstone; there, near
the waterfalls screaming from the plateaus between Earth and Luna.
force, ponds, rivers, streams, allowing us a moment to be free from the heat of
the world; free, a gift, a weeping orphan in singular multiple shards of dew,
fog, washing away our sins. She is more powerful than fire, iron; for she, the
goddess of the liquid world, eats iron, travels within rivulets where fire dies
within, as on; and in the last moments before the forest sleeps, before night
swallows the moon. She, they, it, is task; so little known, a sister of another
world, felt and severed, as if a great blade has struck the very core of the
water wheel from its pinions, spilling love to the turned-up faces of the
cries, silent moans, butterflies soaring, winged, wind whisper warriors, these
Gypsies of cylindrical ovals of a sun-lit glee; there, blended within the sky,
within the darkness. Each white water drop illuminated as if a secular and
singular promise from heaven, mimicking each, as a single opal.
She and those
echo her are our benefactor, our whore, our courtesan, our lover, a single
sonnet of a cooling song on our faces; faces turned to God, as a reward, as a
human and as beautiful and as soothing as moss that lives from this reward for
our survival. She is, our cousin, our child, our sisters, she is the wet
kiss on my cheek as I turn my eyes to the end of the universe.
She is the color
tantrum welded of gray and opium white spectrum of shattered mirrors that
touches, grazes and kisses my lips as the morning dew melts within the first
hints of a mauve dawn. She is the source of all life, the beginning of time,
the end of life, if she should chose to vanish from our lives; she is, she
shall always be, simply said the great Queen of all life.
She is a rainbow
translucent tear drop, the goddess to her sister THE RAIN.
j brooke is a writer with over 100
credits, and never lists them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you have
already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: email@example.com