I slid through the gap and into a spiraling whirlpool,
landed inside the gray with a nauseous splash.
Trees stood stripped of dignity, shuddering in the twilight
of winter, naked but broiling with torturous stakes.
As branches drowned in the wake of death their fingers pointed
through ripples pungent with sulfur and blue, bruised blood.
Shock took captive my slipping heart, which spluttered against the
ominous fog creeping in to steal my good eye.
On this page I recreate history
from the remnants of childhood –
This keyboard grows smooth with jabbering fingers
tapping the fear and wonder –
My screen glows white from the heat of knowledge
lighting the hidden shadows –
And free from the net that strangled my spirit
I resurrect Her wild past.
In solitary non-compliant places
the Mystica rise
against the gravitational tug of nature
thwarting mortal will.
Gnarly limbs that grasp into consciousness
press the rub of time.
Their fingers grapple the swollen currents –
blasted and empty –
swimming away from treacherous sandbanks,
unchecked by any tide.
A mysterious spell-binding graciousness
captivates the eye
and highlights the worn skeletal echoing
of constant pressure.
Their branches lie bare of verdant feathering
yet will bloom again
as they wrestle the constant drownings that
sap land-locked spirits.
Look! Out of even dead apparitions spring
promises of fresh life.