Wednesday, 22 May 2013

Histories.

She lived in a time where the past was a weight to be forgotten and the future an idea too small to be considered. He lived in a world where the past, in all its intricacies, did not remain merely behind him but around, like a mist that he would pluck from and build into new shapes that he hoped sailed onward. The Kings of the East gave gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. She only saw the frankincense, he only saw the myrrh - neither, the gold. A golden age was not written for them.

When people harvest myrrh, they wound the trees repeatedly to bleed them of the gum.

That which is prized comes from the blood of thorns. We made love once under a coat of myrrh floating about us and she said I did not understand her. Which anecdote from her past did I fail to notice that I misjudged her so erroneously? We are all histories written in a separate tongue against the ones written of us.

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

Poetry 10/03/2013

Like a winged thing robbed of its function -
Lay me at a bower,
Where the weary oft sleep -
You need not worry,
It'll be like rest, someone once said -
from a listless hour.

Shan

Saturday, 11 May 2013

The Wick.

She was always hesitant of blowing off the candle; the smoke that came thereafter had a smell that she did not like. But she liked candles so it was inevitable. When he was still in her life, he was relegated to this duty.

There was something comforting in the scent of the smoke; in the dying of the flame; in the brief hot glow of the burnt wick. As she went to bed that night turning off their bedside lamp, he caught the red glow in his sight. He saw the red wick, now without the weight of the flame, slowly go out. In the dark the redness was brilliant and he wondered: how many of us are wicks to other people's flames.