Sienna at Burnt Twilight

[ellajam]

I'm really enjoying this. I like that I can't figure out the rhyme scheme, it keeps it interesting and natural. I also find a lot of the language here beautiful. Here are some notes.

.
In the blackness of the night,
I ghost out under monochromatic light, "ghost out" caught my attention, in a good way
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. I'm not sure about voids, maybe depths, or maybe something better
This is not melancholy gloom, Love that this is made clear, and the sounds of these lines
a fog on stagnant stilted pond:
it is the strand that binds quintessence
through all the present haze
as life beats ruby crystal time Ruby works so well for me, makes me think of bloodflow
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.
This section had me grinning, it's thought, pace, images

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.
Regarding “change our choice back now!”, I don't think we're so quick to admit the bad choice was our own, maybe “change our world back now!” or something along those lines.


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 think of sickled as a clean cut and tumbled as shattered, I'm confused

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.
love this being in May, swoon

—Erthona

Thanks for posting it, an interesting and beautiful read.