Published on January 8th, 2013 | by The Alchemist3
To be read to blank pages and unlit candles.
Twenty two nights it was.
When she first came to me like a feathery apparition,chanting chapels where each feather stood.
Bearing worlds in the corners of her ears,
I realized then that there were graveyards I had not yet listened to.
Her name was Morella.
Made to move mountains with the moans of her molten mists.
Origami sunset eyes that stretched like a tired back,impatient to leap out of their sockets.
She curled between her toes the language of clouds,
And made grand castles of equations and premiss.
Turning each number into a silver dragon and each thesis a field.
But her mind grew hungrier
And neither Homer nor Rumi served sumptuous soups,
So she spun into rust,
A rust the color of purple,
That grew teeth and roared like the Mother of Oceans.
It was then that I sought to write,
Stuttering melodies that would calm the beast – my Morella.
But each word sank back into its papery womb,
For fear of being violated.
Sprayed across walls like paintings of cenozoic monasteries,her purple began to bleed a deeper purple.
And it was so that I watched my Morella wither.
Day after day,regressing into nothing like a story she was enjoying.
And when all of her fell like Sodom’s walls.
I turned to look at her,and I became a pillar of woes.
I waved her pieces to the Heavens,
Until the Skies were obliged to pick them and turn them into gold and rain and dust.
Because we knew that Life was a composition of falling things.
And because Life was also,
Too short and unworthy to embrace every inch of her 5ft temple,Death came at the ungodliest of hours.
And I know now that Death has a song.
It is a very hairy song.
You’ll feel each tender bristle bend against your skin until it knows you inside out.
And if you will listen you will find that the world moves by it.
The trees,this heart,this daring fog.
So Death,be proud.
For you have clasped the ivory breasts of a sunset and stilled her heart.
A woman borne of Angel dust and hellish orbs.
I will weep by your silent throat and sew sestets in your sections,
Until the earth under my feet knows never to swallow its own.
-Joshua S. Lean.
(Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s story of same title)