07-04-2017, 08:48 PM
‘Where am I?’ so much more often than not, because the places she has been and the places she is going have no names. They are old stale worlds with low, red moons; or they are new, brilliant ones with buoyant, rowdy suns.
They are places without maps and places without Time.
They are places in, and out of, the universe.
They are extinct and they are dormant.
They hold jubilant pastel castles ruled over by toothed beast-nature and shuttered, unembellished monasteries full of tall-legged seabirds bent low in prayer.
And they are worlds full of golden grasses grown tall by a nourishing earth; golden sands bent into pretty patterns by a reckless wind. They are lush forests, full of the yips, hoots and yowls of by-gone friends. They are ‘home’ and they are faraway from it; behind and before slips of spacey fabric, torn through by blood or playful ritual, by need and by adventure.
She knows not where she is, anymore, nor why she goes. It is not that she has given up, it is that she has forgotten – those invocations, ‘father’ and ‘Irisa’, had died on her tongue somewhere between worlds. So Nyxia walks, away from reaped golden grasses and promises, onward into the hall of close, frosted evergreens and naked birches.
“Here,” she sighs softly, stopping to lean against a dead-cold trunk, “here I am.” ‘Home’, she hears faintly like a warming breath cupping both side of her asymmetric head. Below the ice and snow, glittering prettily in the early sun, lay yellowed windflower, abeyant to the winter but ready to grow again in the thaw.
They are places without maps and places without Time.
They are places in, and out of, the universe.
They are extinct and they are dormant.
They hold jubilant pastel castles ruled over by toothed beast-nature and shuttered, unembellished monasteries full of tall-legged seabirds bent low in prayer.
And they are worlds full of golden grasses grown tall by a nourishing earth; golden sands bent into pretty patterns by a reckless wind. They are lush forests, full of the yips, hoots and yowls of by-gone friends. They are ‘home’ and they are faraway from it; behind and before slips of spacey fabric, torn through by blood or playful ritual, by need and by adventure.
She knows not where she is, anymore, nor why she goes. It is not that she has given up, it is that she has forgotten – those invocations, ‘father’ and ‘Irisa’, had died on her tongue somewhere between worlds. So Nyxia walks, away from reaped golden grasses and promises, onward into the hall of close, frosted evergreens and naked birches.
“Here,” she sighs softly, stopping to lean against a dead-cold trunk, “here I am.” ‘Home’, she hears faintly like a warming breath cupping both side of her asymmetric head. Below the ice and snow, glittering prettily in the early sun, lay yellowed windflower, abeyant to the winter but ready to grow again in the thaw.