The Perfidy of Ixtlan
Posted: July 28th, 2010, 3:42 pm
Up in the highlands the winds stir gently, the cool breath of the early morning air soothes the lungs, urging flight or at least movement against the backdrop of a supreme stillness. My path among these starry nights is an evolution of sight and sound, and I see it all; I hear the cries, the soft moans of the desert. The coyote call out toward dawn, seeking spirits of long dead men and beasts, aware of the moon even when it hides in the canyons and illuminates the scrub grass from behind mesa walls of earth and stone; stretched out, the light keeps the blackness of night at bay. Awaiting the day, Helios’ stare, my lover smiles with penitent smoothness, a shift from the wildness of moments before; her eyes glazed over in love or resignation, Out here in the wasteland we feel small once again and unconnected We are unnoticed by all of the many worlds of words and thoughts and ideas. Where have my paths led me on this clear and serene night, this night among ghosts and long silent hills. Lines crease my face, where worry and thought have left deep footprints, caveats, brutality in my eyes, deep pools of brown. I bow down before the temptation of lust, thick with blood and the parched soil that surrounds me. I’ve got it all, and still want more.
The landscape bends to my will, and I bend to it’s. I offer solace, a chance at small victories, a transmigration, my soul from now unto flight, a heavy reluctance from the grounded reality, to smooth black wings, risen and rising, invisible in the night sky; leaving many wondering at the strangeness of escape. Hell is just the chains of doubt and impotence. My heaven awaits in the clouds, the black that swallows you up, the feeling of grace under my wings. When you look down from on high, the world is a small thing, a play toy.
The landscape bends to my will, and I bend to it’s. I offer solace, a chance at small victories, a transmigration, my soul from now unto flight, a heavy reluctance from the grounded reality, to smooth black wings, risen and rising, invisible in the night sky; leaving many wondering at the strangeness of escape. Hell is just the chains of doubt and impotence. My heaven awaits in the clouds, the black that swallows you up, the feeling of grace under my wings. When you look down from on high, the world is a small thing, a play toy.
