The Elder Scrolls – Nocturnal

Nocturnal, Night Mistress. Daughter of Twilight.
On Ebonmere you glide, to touch the lives you choose,
While guardians gather in the gloaming.
The shadows are your chosen,
Sent to whisper and to guide through fortune’s favor.

Empress of Murk. Saint of Suspicion.
More worship you than any other Daedra, but
You care not for priests or acolytes.
No prayers or hymns sway when bargain is struck;
Those outside are left to obscurity.

Mistress of Shadows.  Mistress of Mystery.
I bring myself to the bargaining table to strike a deal,
Or strike a chord within.
Wrap your shadows around me, make me unseen,
And Evergloam take all my ever-afters.

 

Gallipot

The vessel where I store myself is permeable;
I want to be able to get out, should the need arise.  Mostly, though,
I am content within earthenware walls,
With lid closed tightly above me, so I don’t leak out onto the floor.

I’ll percolate in here, or maybe ripen.
The air is moist; I breathe, and my skin is still and cool.
But under there all manner of things writhe and twist, weave and twine,
And ply their limbs along my bones.

This is not a process fit for public consumption.

When all mystics speak mystic (and they do),
It doesn’t matter if they hear you scream.  They’ve been down
This road before.  Even so, shifting on an elemental level
Is not the prettiest thing they’ve seen.

And for those who have not, or can not, or will not (it doesn’t matter which),
Logic overtakes the lack of reason needed
To fold oneself in tiny squares, to remove the parts that need
Analysis, and study them.

It is an exceedingly tight fit in this jar.

Lack of reason it is, but just the same there are reasons for this;
To become, I must inhabit the parts I most dislike.
I must know them inside-out, and so I turn myself that way.
I curl into a ball and wall myself up to be cut loose.

Within the mystibabble is something worth remembering:
That this is chosen, that we break ourselves to fix ourselves,
That our heads split open to be put back, over and over again,
That transformation is a violent, gory process.

And in the end, we’re something more.

Seasonal Impressions

In and through, over and over,
Grey lion chases fluffy lamb,
Or lamb runs after lion; the order does not matter
But for an elementary phrase.
The air is streaming.  Moisture gathers
In all my cracks and crevices, while wind
Does its best to keep it back.
I am turning inside-out.
Innards gleaming on the outside;
Change is coming.

Marrow aches; my mind is racing.
Pressures rise and fall to
Fill the evening sky with light.
What is tomorrow but another changeling day?
When all the dust is turned to ribbons,
When I am saturated with the sounds of greening,
Then comes this along the skyline:
A fading line of blue and green.
In twilight creeps the heart of all the being,
Sight unseen, but not unheard.

Time will prick behind my eyes,
And my own sap will start to rise.

Fallow February

The shortest month is oft the longest;
I know this much is true.
When grey and black and white are all the colors not intentional,
When grey and wet combine with cold to make things slower,
This is when fallow falls.

Silence seems the letter of the day,
And spent is just the normal place and time;
Song and dance have faded far from mind,
And barely is, in turn, what is enough.
February.

I will pick up the gauntlet thrown, one day.
I will unwrap my wrappings, stiff with ice,
And raise my voice, aloud, once more.
I’ll set the mantle on my brow, take up the yoke,
And find my footing.

Fallow comes to everyone,
Despite pains taken otherwise.
Best it be remembered thus –
Soonest ended, soonest mended,
Lest we forget, again, to rise.

Yarling

When need outstrips all other things,
And place and time become irrelevant,
It is the yarling that can bring us past those things that
anchor us in place, and set us
Free.

It isn’t an unknown thing; the weeping, the wailing, the gnashing of teeth.
It can come from a primal depth, from the bottom of the belly of the beast within us,
Or, it can spring upon us, all unknowing, until our jaws ache with the effort of keeping it locked in.
It is transcendent, the outpouring of sound and fury signifying
Everything.

Let it out.

Let it out.

Let it out, among the trees, amidst the clouds and stars and running water.
Let it out, among the concrete and the glass and steel.
Let it out, for within you dwells a spark to set the world ablaze, and nothing will ever be the same again.
Let it out, in the Name of Yourself.

It is the yarling;
Hearken to it.

Xenomorph

Shift.
my body’s bending in the latest fashion
to this task i cannot name.
when done, i will no longer be myself,
or at least not one i recognize.
time gets funny in a cell, and with the Shift
i’m breaking out.

Wend.
among the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
he may have said it best, but least is motion yielding.
sometimes nonsense is the better kind of sense,
especially when traveling the spaces in-between.
i am surprised at what i’ve done, and when i Wend
new doorways open.

Blur.
don’t blink or you’ll have missed me;
amid the strands i’m flying low and far, tools in mind.
the sense is capturing the rhythm without undoing, but
knowing’s a forever changing thing.
when breaking builds unending walls, to turn to Blur
takes mortar from the stones.

Inknowing in these spaces is the key,
And wilding deep-set changes set you free.

Susurrus

You were in the dream I had, all heat and shifting sands;
I could hear each grain move against the others with your steps.
Your breath was the burning wind, even as your face was hidden from me
In the gathering clouds.

If I could paint you, in all your glory, my strokes would stripe the canvas,
My colors would convey radiance and movement, awe and change;
Eyes seeing it would fall into an awful depth of vision.

If I could write you, in endless phrase and stanza, my notes would fall like pounding rain,
My phrases would be building crescendo on crescendo, agonizing fermata after fermata;
Ears hearing it would fall into an awful depth of resonance.

Awful is an agonizing state, though it has its benefits.