fire origami

the fire is warm on my face
the house is silent

she steps through a crack between the worlds

in her hands an origami. . .
flower?
dragon?
a twisted paper thing

without speaking she casts it onto the coals
it hisses and writhes
but strangely it is a moving sculpture
convolving first into a flaming head of a stallion
and angel’s wing
a river of fire

i turn
and she is gone

The Sage and the Minx

The Sage is working at his desk
(it might have been a desk once
for the moment it’s an avalanche in slow motion
a testament to the angle of repose)

A five dimensional tesseract flickers into and out of existence
a hand’s breadth above the four dimensional tesseract he build back on ’07
Tiny sparkle diamond angels and ox-blood demons buzz around the Ergon Lagrangian points

His Mechanamuse props a lovely arm on one of the less precarious stacks
Heavy is her sigh

The old man is totally distracted by his newly conjured toy
and so he misses her plaintive eye-roll

She sighs again
a tsunami scented of autumn and dried leaves
strikes the 5 dimensional object making it shimmer in the flickering candle light

“Yes Dear one
I know you are here. . .”

“Oh Grey
I am so bored. . .”

“So tonight I am to be the entertainment?”

“Silly wizard
I am the entertainment
You’re the appreciative audience.”

Light is rekindled in his grey slade eyes
With the slightest flick of his wrist the construct flickers once
twice
and then it’s gone

“Let’s go outside
Perhaps a walk before evenmeal.”

“Yeah
Good call
I’ll get my bow.”

Lament for Raven ~ a muse passes

My Muse is dead
Burn the map
The four petals of the compass rose curl
in flame
My torment ending
is torment renewed
I never asked for an easy life
Never expected one either
Got less than I asked for
an I asked for nothing

My Muse is dead
My hands are cold
I have nothing left to give
Sacrifice has become revenge
All the darkness
has swallowed this one candle
Nothing from nothing leaves
this moment

My Muse is dead
I am implicated
Evil abounds everywhere
in me
Have I made any difference at all
I never asked for a throne in Heaven
I would be oh so happy
with the least stool

Is she captured in this dead man’s hands. . .?

He was there in the darkness
Echoes in the silence of his dirge singing of a harsh mistress
a dark muse
 No longer able to control his actions
    in the plane of the Imaginary
The place where anima and animus
    wage endless war
As though one or the other could ever win
And he
    the passive witness
Yearns for closure
    an end to naming

She
Creativity in its most destructive form
A Dark Power
Mindless hunger
The other side of life

Is there a point to this mess?
Is there any sane reason for participating in the war of art?
Is she captured in this dead man’s hands. . .?