Resist it! Common

darkness advances like moss.

Nothing quells nothing.

The sky was moonless. 

Under it an ocean matte rooted nearly still.

Her lusterless oily layers folded over, gently thieving the silence from our sloshing evening. 

A new breeze conceived in scalar jet set fingers tugging from East to West, stretching inflamed silver in thinning clouds, sinuously curling. 

The fathomless and celestial quiet exhumed a pale doves’ wing above, until gleaming radiance full-wreathed our Moon in gradients of violet gloom. 

Waters churned a little more and clapped our shore. 

Darkness lapping receded before this false dawn, carrying our icy woe-song out to melt as snow long, long into another’s depths. 

Vacated, our sadness filled up with a remote sound that was not our own: a beating crows note now almost unknown, a humming that rose to the chest and fell back to the throat. 

Lesions dark on our frozen lips cracked as dilapidated bridges collapsing to our fingertips. 

Fear crusted falling flakes thawed in air into these images. 

And a sigh of rancor oozed out into a sigh of mirth, a sigh carried out to the swept sky, a sigh floating out to a refracted loud and billowing moon. 

Alive, in the night’s cocoon, under no star we are above a white canopy waving with the surface of the sea. 

Our power travels so far along the remotest notes and gestures, spoken out loud. 

Power is out loud! 

Out loud our spell contains magic in words (even mortal words) immortalized, prying open any portal. 

Our loud voice submerges lying and spying. 

Divine finds us inside love – connected – our throat is more than one solitary bridge; our voice lights other fathomless surfaces – away from the fearsome worthlessness. 

Our voice is heard and we are tethered. 

Time is no barrier, distance is but barely. 

Through another’s scenery we become another’s muse, friends beating in unison – our minds are interfused – and that other side is sublimated. 

When tried our loneliness is sucked out like a tide. 

This is a common telepathy, commonly obscured and denied. 

So their old tombs of pride and sadness fill up with deluges of ancient swoons. 

Solitary dirges will thread out and tune into your own images – our weakness, our silence is crushed and purged through expression. 

This is the ruin of hushed eons of depression. 

A lesson, a shared rite, taught as one contrite eye eats beams of Sunlight.

Or maybe the lesson was that our fading dreams were all we had left to lose.

April fools? 

The honk of a goose can be grateful news, eruptions of truths, the final and frenzied end of our useless ghouls.