Sweven

Migration
West is a scarlet wall. Dark shapes mount horizon, flocking, floating, flapping. And we, willingly blind to magnificent now, miss all the soaring signs. Geese of golden feather. Silver swans and herons hum their sacred hymns. Pterodactyls soar on pearlescent stingray wings. Even as I see them my eyes remain quite blind. Their dreamy reality soars straight over my mind.

The Spark
Her world is fluid blue, of sparking scales and flickering fins, of predators and hungering things. Despite the death above, below, beside, she sparkles while avoiding eyes.

The Bereaved
Roads are a clot of cars. My feet will find a way. Cringe through inching chaos, sing through this slow escape. A cousins home hunches, desolation heavy. They sit in silent pain bereft of wit or words, wrapped in sorrow and shade. No solace shines in me. Children swarm. Sip dark drink. Eat their fill of ant swarmed dates. And then he is present, he who had passed. He plays for us a song. Guitars shriek, lyrics slip from a host of haunted lips. I wish it otherwise but no solace shines in me. I leave.