Cryptic characters parade across
Snowy fields of insular nature,
Explaining what it is in obsidian
Hieroglyphs where certain
Landmarks grow from buried roots.
A blackened vein runs down the center
From somewhere to somewhere else,
With blocks and bricks and
Wooden fences holding them in
Warm embrace on either side.
She composes her mind with a pen
That sometimes clots its ink,
Hidden behind a blue wall
And lace curtain pulled to the side,
Hanging on a rusted nail.
Friends surround her except for one,
Those around explain how it is
She is supposed to express herself
Without really knowing how
The patterns tesselate in the dark.
The one not there, that mystic guide,
Shunned because of age of ability,
Or because he didn’t point the sword,
Eats pieces of hope and the future
That are the very essence of who he is.
The task completed, a messenger is summoned
To deliver the parcel so the woman can drink,
Her one friend really two in symbiosis,
The other merely a co-conspirator in creation,
All exhausted from singing in harmony.
The parcel is delivered but questions are asked,
The messenger knows only nothing
And how kaleidoscopes crack in crystal rings,
Smiling toothless grins and machine gun laughs
To diffuse the war with bellicose peace.
Alone again and at last to begin
Carving a clean rosetta stone in candle wax
And porcelain flowers that shower sparks,
Behind a wooden curtain poked full of holes,
Separated in his mind, together in hers.
Author’s Note: Not one of the best I’ve done, but there we have it. There were maps to be drawn. A pregnant woman was there, too. All in the name of community development!