Sienna at Burnt Twilight

[Erthona]

.
In the blackness of the night,
I ghost out under monochromatic light,
and know the gentle breeze is you.
I feel you brush against my face:
causing an unseen silent tear,
knowing you are, and are not here,
thoughts like prayers muttered in haste
into voids of unmeasured space.
This is not melancholy gloom,
a fog on stagnant stilted pond:
it is the strand that binds quintessence
through all the present haze
as life beats ruby crystal time
through the ancient hallways of my mind,
where lighthearted laughter once did play,
but now stays far, far away.

Awake good child: Puck or Pan,
we need a boy now not a man.
One who’s always ready with a smile,
who never fears the darkest night;
anyone he can beguile.
Then round the maypole we’ll all come,
and into pies we’ll stick our thumbs,
eating jelly or the crumbs,
nor turn such verities intolerable.

Once before waste laid this land,
when all was one and thus thought bland,
my brothers ached for different times.
So they changed our quiescent course,
placid mare traded for unbroken horse.
Their change rendered fire from the skies,
not the valiant thumb for pies.
Only after did they rue their vow,
and in one voice cry,
“change our choice back now!”
but our powers were long bled,
thus we found we had no choice,
but to the violence of our souls give voice.

So is it any wonder that it brings a tear,
to the child, sickled urn lying near,
having tumbled off it’s lofty perch,
and war is now the same as church,
all broken into pieces?

I long for you upon this dawning day
in this wintered, withered month of May,
for I know that it is true,
—I cannot turn from this frigid breeze—
that is and is not you.

—Erthona