Dust and Dreams-A Journey
Last Flight (Dust)
Last Flight
Brutality, at the summit of the mountain,
Confusion around every corner, lurking,
Behind the cover of every living tree.
It dares to present itself as beauty,
Beckoning to pure souls who run for its cover.
Who consumed the poisoned berries, along that path?
Bright red though they were,
Suggesting succulence and nourishment,
But yielding only death.
I have heard the ghastly screech of the crow,
One last long, before heading to crouch,
Beneath the blackened bark of smothering forest,
The air condensing, the wind choking.
In lies, in distrust, floats reality.
For not even the beauty of nature, can cease
The beating of this hideous heart,
Nor trust in this planet of emptiness;
It merely deceives, like a hungry wolf at midnight.
The genesis of condition was always, after all,
A dream from which I could not awaken,
A birthing that I chose not,
A goal dangling from a mystery.
As mysterious as the stars, the heavens,
The clouds, the earth, the questions,
Are eating my veins alive,
Ruthlessly.
Perhaps all that remains, in the shroud of the clearing,
Is a brook too cold to step foot in,
A sky too dark to see beyond,
A cloud that cries grieving tears, to cloak me
In their wetness.
Where lie the crystal waters of love now?
Have their sediment-laden floors been deemed
Too heavy to survive,
Beneath the weight of life again?
Where are all the green days of childhood?
Touch by tiny, trusting hands,
So many, many years ago?
What has become of everything?
For life is dizzying and tired.
So tired, and wanting sleep,
Eternal sleep beneath the waves,
Of fury, that have crashed throughout,
This journey to nowhere.
The willows are speaking to the maddening wind,
Swaying with their false promise,
Of yielding peace.
But peace has left, forever.
The white dove has fallen to her death,
And the ravens ravage her skeleton.
She has met her final sleep,
Her delicate neck twisted in mock serenity,
Her graceful wings broken into pieces.
2002
Cristine M. DiMario
Brutality, at the summit of the mountain,
Confusion around every corner, lurking,
Behind the cover of every living tree.
It dares to present itself as beauty,
Beckoning to pure souls who run for its cover.
Who consumed the poisoned berries, along that path?
Bright red though they were,
Suggesting succulence and nourishment,
But yielding only death.
I have heard the ghastly screech of the crow,
One last long, before heading to crouch,
Beneath the blackened bark of smothering forest,
The air condensing, the wind choking.
In lies, in distrust, floats reality.
For not even the beauty of nature, can cease
The beating of this hideous heart,
Nor trust in this planet of emptiness;
It merely deceives, like a hungry wolf at midnight.
The genesis of condition was always, after all,
A dream from which I could not awaken,
A birthing that I chose not,
A goal dangling from a mystery.
As mysterious as the stars, the heavens,
The clouds, the earth, the questions,
Are eating my veins alive,
Ruthlessly.
Perhaps all that remains, in the shroud of the clearing,
Is a brook too cold to step foot in,
A sky too dark to see beyond,
A cloud that cries grieving tears, to cloak me
In their wetness.
Where lie the crystal waters of love now?
Have their sediment-laden floors been deemed
Too heavy to survive,
Beneath the weight of life again?
Where are all the green days of childhood?
Touch by tiny, trusting hands,
So many, many years ago?
What has become of everything?
For life is dizzying and tired.
So tired, and wanting sleep,
Eternal sleep beneath the waves,
Of fury, that have crashed throughout,
This journey to nowhere.
The willows are speaking to the maddening wind,
Swaying with their false promise,
Of yielding peace.
But peace has left, forever.
The white dove has fallen to her death,
And the ravens ravage her skeleton.
She has met her final sleep,
Her delicate neck twisted in mock serenity,
Her graceful wings broken into pieces.
2002
Cristine M. DiMario
