Three Myths in Terzanelle

I. The Dying

Above, the galaxy gleams luminescent

reflecting, cold and callous, on the sand

now stained with blood, the future lost to present.

She mimics statue, head bowed, upturned hand,

withholding sound though tears drip from her eyes

reflecting, cold and callous, on the sand.

Something feels mocking in the star-filled skies

as though their fire feasts on her despair

withholding sound, though tears drip from her eyes

and spill into the dirt like useless prayer.

The dark will fade, and light will fill the east

as though the fire feasts on her despair

time yet progressing though her world has ceased.

The planets up above still spinning on

until they fade, and light will fill the east.

A bitter brilliance, a heartless dawn:

above the galaxy gleams luminescent

the planets up above still spinning on

but stained with blood, the future lost to present.

II. The Dead

The moon is orange, a silent glowing stone,

the wind below droning a danse macbre

to shake dead trees like fingers left to bone.

Her throat can only make a strangled sob,

that turns into a desperate choking scream,

the wind below droning a danse macbre.

She struggles in the current of the stream,

as waters clutch her skirt and drag her deep,

that turns into a desperate choking scream

as Death whispers, “It’s not your time to sleep.”

She screams her soul out hopeless ‘til the dawn,

as waters clutch her skirt and drag her deep,

the wind sings, always mocking, “They are gone.”

The stream shows blood again, the light is red:

She screams her soul out hopeless ‘til the dawn,

grieving anew for children long since dead.

The moon is orange, a silent glowing stone

the stream shows blood again, the light is red, and

shakes dead trees like fingers made of bone.

III. Death

He waits impatiently for summer’s end,

for summer’s fruits to wither on the vine,

for with their death, life comes to him again.

Their time is not unyielding like the pine,

deciduous, and waits for change of leaf,

for summer’s fruits to wither on the vine,

and die with them his loneliness and grief.

The trees go red, then brown, and fall like Rome,

deciduous, and wait for change of leaf

to make a golden path to guide her home.

Her smile holding warmth the world has lost

the trees go red, then brown, and fall like Rome:

it’s worth the price that’s paid in snow and frost.

He holds her close as flowers go to seed

her smile holding warmth the world has lost;

when spring returns, his heart begins to bleed.

He waits impatiently for summer’s end,

to hold her close as flowers go to seed

for with their death, life comes to him again.

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