The Monsters from the Outlands


The monsters from the outlands arrived today.
I stood at the city gates eyeing their sad faces
And knew each one as she passed me by.

Their masks seem more transparent than the sun.
Their eyes full of gold and amber light break
Across our lives somber tones in fear and trepidation.

At night we hear their embattled wings adrift
Upon the supernal sea, coursing over the winds
And autumnal silences, snow bound l

Floating above indistinguishable from night’s insolvency.
Their furtive looks and glances speak of worlds
Long thought dead among our translated lives.

Theirs is not the hideous strength of some dark
Longing tribe, more than fear brings these monstrous
Exiles back from their dark angelic wars to us; something

Moves in that emptiness at the edge of our knowing –
Hovering over our black imaginings, nameless and unknown;
Like a future foretold but left unrecognized in the folds

Of some blackened pool of doubt where hateful things live on.
One came to me out of that fog and bog. I knew her wickedly,
Not by name but by her unnamed fabulations, her enframed mind. 

She moved around my humble abode like a mute stone
That will not speak a word, nor hear what cannot be undone.
Deaf, dumb, silent our two abysses could not breach

The vast indifference of our solitudes and evasions.
I fed the fire her bones and tears; her elemental life.
She came back at daybreak emptied of her light.

We slept among her nightmares and ecstasies.
She cut those snaky locks, said she was tired
Of all those stony looks; claimed mirrors frightened her.

We lived under the sign of coiled integrity
Till that morning I saw her cold eyes staring
Up at me from the shattered basin (mirror fragments

Lying there like her fractured mind’s eclipsed
imprimatur) filled w
ith sea-red anemones.
All day I called her name out in the city square.

They say she is elsewhere, traveling to the lost cities
among remembrances.
I burn to see the moon
Lifted in her blameless gaze, a fiery light undiminished

By time or prophecy; fatal and uncertain as those stars
That enfold her i
n the depths of their midnight haze and blaze:
Defiant to the last she strides the outer rim of thought,

Her quest undone, self and soul locked in nightly vigil
Till the daemon rises from her eyes into mine;
And I like some forlorn lover lost and blind

Follow her to the sea’s edge and lean my ear
To the fierce old mother intoning her deep sounds:
Music of love and war, human and inhuman doom.

– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.


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