Asghar Abbas's Blog - Posts Tagged "pure"
Maja Sokolowska
He burned so many bridges with her
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in the new world and the old one- gone. No smolder nor any flicker of flame, not even wisps of any rumor remained.
No more pall of sadness to entertain. There weren’t any forest fires this time around. She had exiled all the forests and annexed all the fires, consuming all that burned around her, preserving everything within her.
In the maudlin kaleidoscope of dust, grime, blood and smoke, he burned all the bridges- or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air, whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward;
when there was time for afterward
when the afterlife didn’t seem like such a bad idea
everything became wet ash.
The very sillage in the air was of burnt whorl from her dreams, the air resounding with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted of her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasting like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one he didn’t drain, brought him up to the hill. Their hair billowing behind them as they coaxed him into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating.
But before he could rebuild, they left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of soot he had come to cherish, ditching him they left him grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Just when he was on the verge of an understanding, when the meaning was within his grasp, they left him on his own, with not even an unkindness of ravens to keep him company.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could salvage, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the Ferryman demanded was too high a toll to pay, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her leafy tree, abandoning his wordlings one by one. Like he was lobbing the gold coins he didn't have into her fountain, but he wasn't tossing the nameless coins in her pound, he was casting out pieces of himself that he couldn't spare.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he shivered with unknown warmth.
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hand.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
that when he was finally done, his remaining world took on a subtle hue of gray.
All the bridges in the new world and the old one- gone. No smolder nor any flicker of flame, not even wisps of any rumor remained.
No more pall of sadness to entertain. There weren’t any forest fires this time around. She had exiled all the forests and annexed all the fires, consuming all that burned around her, preserving everything within her.
In the maudlin kaleidoscope of dust, grime, blood and smoke, he burned all the bridges- or the bridges burned him- that distinction was still up in the air, whilst he hesitated down in the trenches.
Afterward;
when there was time for afterward
when the afterlife didn’t seem like such a bad idea
everything became wet ash.
The very sillage in the air was of burnt whorl from her dreams, the air resounding with the rosemary of her surrender.
Everything tasted of her ashen imagery, everything tasted permanent, tasting like forever.
The other remaining Muses, the one he didn’t drain, brought him up to the hill. Their hair billowing behind them as they coaxed him into the shade of her tree, all in the name of commiserating.
But before he could rebuild, they left him a placated mess, making him feel discontent with the residue of soot he had come to cherish, ditching him they left him grappling with the traces of what he lost and plethora of what he gained from the death of her mind.
Just when he was on the verge of an understanding, when the meaning was within his grasp, they left him on his own, with not even an unkindness of ravens to keep him company.
Her dry memories were the dye on his hands that wouldn’t come off, what images he could salvage, her pink images were swollen with stale poetry.
What the Ferryman demanded was too high a toll to pay, what he was supposed to leave behind in his stead was too high a price, his pockets couldn’t bear the strain of this passage, unnecessarily the river was too deep for him to cross.
On the grassy knoll, he found himself again in the umbrage of her leafy tree, abandoning his wordlings one by one. Like he was lobbing the gold coins he didn't have into her fountain, but he wasn't tossing the nameless coins in her pound, he was casting out pieces of himself that he couldn't spare.
Tucked away in her cold shadows he shivered with unknown warmth.
Standing alone under her tree, he was left with nothing but eight pieces of Tunglið in his hand.
But that wasn’t enough to bring her back.
