Nighttime’s daughter, is waiting for a bus. Stopped. To come on home. With her mind’s eye, a yellow half-moon.
Pavements all pool. Lagoons. Guttural gully rumbles. Rolling on back, beseeched. By runaway days.
“Walking through our streets, laden with reminiscenct mists. Past is heaviest under feet, where souls bawled into fists.” Spits, the hiss of factory steam.
I meander on. Mesmerised by, flash- backs. A gleam, in ancient river’s stream. Flash- caught, in semi-crescent spy’s tide.
Fine and smooth are Autumnal rains. That pine to soothe, then, wipe away, the whipped raze of zealous rays, that crack and blister over staves, and under paves. Proud and boastful in Summer days.
The wilds remove bare, insomnal cage, a skyblue booth, when, white turns grey, as drips came, quelled was jealous rage. A blackened vista, covers brave, bands thunder made. Loud unroast on wondrous scape.
The Featherstone surname is a Northern English locational surname, derived from places in Staffordshire, Yorkshire, and Northumberland.
The name originates from the Old English words “feðerstan” or “fe(o)ther-stān,” meaning a prehistoric structure of four stones or a tetralith (a burial chamber for a chief).
I screamed stone — once set in ice.
Where my life’s home, was. Immoved from.
Swallowed whole.
By, that time;
A cavern’s jaws, wide, with teeth, all labelled: misery. Sidled up, alongside, to champ the hearth, that lived in me.
A loss, embossed, in rock and frost, chomped heavy, crush- ing heartly hinterlands.
I screamed stone — once set in ice.
Lochs of moss were flossed across, hillock, levied, to Hollow Rust, darkly, in command.
Memories pervade, in attempts to thaw, froze alabaster’s keen appetite, for death’s lament.
Every murmured age, that we spent, before, chose as everlasting safekeep stalagmites.
Those sentimental, pastimed sediments.
I screamed stone — once set in ice.
‘Til our soul’s faced, a symbolic, snug embrace. I broke free from cold, obelisk’s raze. It stoked our heart’s hug, in it’s rightful place. After, grasping you, afterlife, screamed stones, are, melodic, monumental tones. And, set ice, like you, is, warm, yet, crystallised. Just, as your thoughts, saw for us, precious lives. You lit up our archway with gleaming lights. A matriarchal, tetralithic spirit-guide.
Now, you are; dreamed stones — in our feathered eyes.
My money was through in slanted lands. So, I begun anew with extant, dead hands.
Solitude was conjured in the Catherine wheels, that spun along my martyrdom.
I rode a road on pneumatic drill spike tips. Plunging hole after hole free of lifely grips.
A question covered me in bloody rust; “How do you govern me, I’m governless?”
At a saintly grotto, St. Colmcille’s Shrine, a faintly motto paints the pillar’s lime;
“I am a Dove when shackled, rough. On wings, open, clutching us together. Far above, Father Darby’s banded cuff — gone kin, soak in gushy luck; untethered.”
Aft armies of words conquered tongue twisting lands. While phrased-chains bound with gags slave’s mouthly hands.
All went quiet on the Western Front. Eastern stillborn syllabic discord silently bore the brunt.
Powerful vowels kissed consonant prominence at deathly hours they were gossip’s dominance.
Squadrons o’ sashes brainwashed pails o’ lies. Pogroms lay bleeding in crimson eyes. Quadrans placed o’er red pane’s demise. All fell quiet when their piece was spoken. Common words met their lowly end. Swift mute compliance when peace was broken. A black ominous bird’s crowed lament.
All goes quiet when it’s bled from us. A hushing quiet when all said is shushed.
It’s mine and not Pandora’s. Yet, Her enshrined loss and ridicule sublime when outfoxed by Gods is certainly something I’d find. Hidden inside my forbidden box. There’s fearful waves crashing crests fallen against anxious rocks. There’s memoried slaves lashed and lest walled in by fated injustice rot. All of which is ill-got like sharp pains in my chest all found shot in my gunslinging, disheartened box.
But, now has come the time to castaway my hidden box to smash it open fore and hind against those anxious rocks to shoot it smoking from my mind with a marksman’s shot to bid longlasting “may you never find me here again” in the freed speech of memoried slaves from their recollective walled in cage.
And, finally, put to rest in a vanquished, vanished grave my far castaway, gunslinging, forbidden, hidden box.
While, Fated Winter, waits underneath our tectonic plates. The Hearts of Men freeze over.
A Sun’s distaste stuns through rays of teeth a souped-sonic phrase;
“Thirsts and gusts impart a wend toward fields rebirthed a-growing by another giver: a mothering river with lored creeks and surf now flowing but first you must adopt to tend a broader seed worth sowing…”
And, as ought to a Son let go and set below man’s orange-red environ “…then, a Daughter, with claret aglow, will rosily reckon, a wet plateau. Aft, Doomsday’s — bled horizon.”
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