My Kingdom For A King by Cloacina

A pale inevitability
haunts the sun,
sticks to its photon trail
a phantom blur
in some black and white photograph.

A smudge
in the printing of life,
the pale fingerprint
of destiny,
given mobility.

Whispers to the king
of earthly light,
"You, too,
shall expire."

Nights like these, steal
even his lay way ghost.
Perhaps for once,
the sun can sleep
in peace.

As the moon hides
behind dark restless mountain ground,
and tear away clouds
sticking motionless
to adorn the fecundant flesh
of darkness,
the timeless beauty
of sky.

They're faking frozen now
with the eternal chase
of death and life,
man and woman,
predator and prey.

We pause in our dance,
but you hold me close,
say,
"Don't walk away"
like you had to ask.

Limbo,
puragatory,
words I prefer to death
hell,
and consumption.

But does pause prevent end?
And if pause is unending,
doesn't pause become end?
Hesitation
decision?

Will you dance with me,
my king?

The car has stilled now.
Pulled over to the side of the road
to gaze upon the day
that has undressed
herself.

I watch the graceful age
of sunspent sky,
as she makes contact with the ground,
blushes
with the dirty red heat
of lightning.

In the seeeded mist
of summer rain,
darkness
let's her hair tumble down
luminous woolen strands,
spilling through the valleys,
in ephemeral threads,
softer than the winds
that gently toss
the thick and tangled tresses
of time's mane.

The fresh smell of rain
sharp as metal,
like the taste of spoons,
the makeshift lollipops
of lazy mountain days.

Reminds me of that day
by the river.

The symbolic- life and death,
the concrete- your sweet flesh
that weaved with movement, between
the stately postures of trees,
and my posture
yielding in your limbs,
my warm feet, breaking the coolness
of water
in defiance-
Are we not,
more than spit?

And the chemical wash-
desire,
and affection,
fear,
respect,
the hopeful packrat
memory.

I told you
river mud had a distinctive smell,
remembered that time
my father and I searched for crawdeads.

You named it.
Smells like shit.
That was exactly what I thought, too,
but somehow.....
the scent of shit seemed welcome
sweetened by memory
and natural beauty.

But this,
this smells clean, smells like
childhood,
like dreams
and dewy drawings on window panes,
like grey school days,
and the wilderness I was born into,
and the wilderness
within me,
and the human desire
for love
and the consumation
of hungry longing.