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An Apocalypse of Dawn

*Musical accompaniment in the Author Notes  

“Writing doesn’t force or commit; it touches. The order it bestows on the emanations of human consciousness cultivates an architectural aspect to the imagination; into the forests and dark waters of myth and memory, intrude the letters, those subtle conductors, cobbling together colleges and choruses of thought. ”
Palimpsest, Matthew Battles
  
..  
   
III. A respite  
   
Sitting outside  
In the curious  
Cool  
Interregnum  
Of dusk  
Amidst the rising  
Chorus of crickets  
And chirrups  
Of crepuscular  
Birds,  
Nightjars  
Scrub-jay  
Sky Dancers,  
Soaring on thermals  
   
My stray  
Animal  
Rubbing and biting his filial  
Gratitude  
Along my arms, thickened  
With work  
Muscle, clad in  
Black  
Tattoos, which stand  
Out, upon  
Broad  
Blades of shoulder  
   
Wends a graceful  
Gait  
Between  
My pillared  
Legs, which  
Rest  
Upon weather  
Worn steps  
   
An occasional  
Press  
Of his curious little  
Head, into the heels of my  
Hands, whose slow  
Response, is dreaming full of  
Ghosts, old scars  
Sing of some  
Few  
Battles  
And much  
Buffoonery  
   
Sing and listen in their silent  
White  
Sentences,  
To the ambient  
Sounds  
   
Saying  
Nothing  
   
..  
   
II. A departure  
   
His voice, is  
His rust,  
Snaps consonants  
Into shards  
   
His ailment  
Moans  
Bruised  
Vowels  
Between weak  
Breaths  
   
The hospital  
Bed  
Coccoons  
Him, with its tepid  
Milk  
Susurrations  
Into a  
Wight,  
Which,  
Somehow, trails  
Chains of unreconciled  
Woes,  
Invisible, yet palpable, in  
Still  
Ozone vapor  
Trails,  
Where his brow  
Is furrows  
Of sea  
Foam,  
This fading Neptune of youth  
   
I am sitting  
Opposite  
    
Saying  
Nothing  
   
Whilst I contemplate the sharp  
Contrast  
Between starlit  
Galaxies  
In a gleaming  
Vortex  
Upon my upward  
Thrust  
Fist  
And a wane  
Artificial  
Sun  
Gently  
Shedding  
Shortwave  
Infrared  
Light,  
Overhead,  
Into the dark  
Room,  
Below, where  
My best friend lay  
Dying  
   
He is violent  
To his last  
With desperate bouts of  
Life  
   
He is last  
To depart  
My life  
   
I am alone  
   
Space. Time.  
In the implacable iron  
Grip of  
Juggernauts  
   
Helpless. Powerless.  
Both of us  
   
..  
   
I. A reverie  
   
Wind curls around her slender  
Limbs of columned sweet  
Milk, whispering  
Its want, through a notebook’s dry  
Riverbed, from lonesome  
Lines,  
Widows and orphans  
Trailing,  
Whose tongues  
Tread  
Forks into horizontal towers  
In time,  
Elapsed and cinched about her  
With hoops of sullen  
Intransigence, these pout  
Swollen lips that  
Wink, in their honey  
Drip  
Of language, which poems upon her  
Star  
Symmetrical  
Steps and meter steady  
Clap of cadence on vine drenched  
Stone  
   
Dotted  
Periods  
Of perspiration  
Upon her  
Sweet  
Herb  
Brown  
Papyrus  
   
She ripens as winter air  
Settles  
In space,  
Hovering  
Upon  
A dew dappled  
Meadow,  
Whose presence  
Cannot be captured  
In a photograph,  
Only beheld  
In its midst,  
In the cradle of it’s  
Palm,  
A thin  
Breath  
Before  
The morning star  
Crowns  
This terrestrial sphere,  
With an apocalypse  
Of dawn,  
Astonishing the gods  
   
Her tightly spiraled  
Mane, a constellation  
Of serpents, lifting,  
Falling,  
Gently,  
Into a semblance  
Of a conductor’s  
Graceful  
Articulation  
   
Her voice a distilled  
Sonata  
Of boa  
Coiled contours  
   
She is  
Sitting  
Hourglass  
Perfect  
   
Eyes  
Orbit  
Her curvatures,  
Pulled  
By some  
Invincible  
Gravity  
   
I, barely able to  
Restrain  
This primal  
Want,  
This naked  
Flame  
   
She,  
Sitting  
Icily  
Still  
And opposite,  
   
Rising,  
Folds into my  
Embrace,  
Gives up the ghost,  
Collapsing into  
A sigh of  
Cinders  
   
She glows with rapidly  
Expanding  
Embers  
Of pungent  
Purple  
Kaleidoscopic  
Wisps and  
Motes,  
Which swirl upon  
The eddies of  
Air  
   
I sway,  
Rapt,  
In the wake of her  
Ruin  
   
Grazed by bare  
Fingertips  
Of sound  
   
Her specter  
Lingers  
In the deepening  
Of doorways, whose shadow  
Drapes a skewed  
L  
Into the stanza  
   
Poised  
In the purity  
Of this  
Living  
Moment,  
Aching  
Alchemical  
Silence  
   
I am alone  
   
Saying  
Nothing  
   
..  
   
Quietly,  
We three  
Dissolve  
   
Awash in tidal light  
   
..  
   
An Apocalypse of Dawn  
By  
Daniel Christensen
DanielChristensen
Written by DanielChristensen (The Fire Elemental)
Published
Author's Note
*https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEyOCavt4y4

Dedications to influences on the tone and language of this write I wish to honor: RevolutionAL, for the mature skill of his evocative writes,...
*https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEyOCavt4y4

Dedications to influences on the tone and language of this write I wish to honor: RevolutionAL, for the mature skill of his evocative writes, Sartoris for his measured eloquence and subtle depths of meaning, HeyCyanides for the pure emotion of her candid spills, Poets Revenge for her adroit ability and reverence for classical authors. Missy Demeanor for all of these.

Copyright © 2019 by Daniel Christensen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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