Post by goldenmyst on Mar 29, 2022 22:34:05 GMT -6
Goodbye to Home
This story is dedicated to the Ukraine where a couplet of souls flies like kites on wings of smoke whose good karma is earned by the sacrifice of small pleasures for the formless form of true finesse.
She wears her tutu proudly for her last pirouette before the exodus. At that moment, her face looks like that of Helen sailing the lake of heaven who for the first time sees the Isle of the Blest where she will share the afterlife with Achilles over tea steeped in a funeral urn from their native Ukraine.
Her nervous twitch from when she was a girl has returned like the goblins that hid beneath her bed. And she taps her toe-shoes like a street performer busking for a bus ticket home.
To say goodbye to her native soil, she walks by the shores of the Black Sea. Blue waves undulate like a dream through sun showers where the ocean heartbeat throbs. Golden streamers of sun unfurl across cerulean waters.
The blackened ruins smoke peacefully where the sea laps the pebble strewn beach. Dark clouds swirl in the salty breeze where ivory bones are encrusted in soot. Sacred relics repose in serenity amongst shattered shards of domestic bliss. Wrens nest in roofless homes whose chirps penetrate the deep well of quiet. The sound of fluttering wings softly suffuses the silence.
A courtyard is illuminated by the holy light that stands in the glow of cosmic fire. A fig tree sprouts spring leaves with tiny figs swelling on green boughs. The fecund spring Goddess blesses the wounded earth with the sweet touch of love.
Songbirds slip into silence as a fragile peace settles into cool shadows. Among the torn shards of life the fig tree bears the fruit that persists in this decimated land now that the more voracious birds of appetite have migrated for the bountiful crops of Poland leaving the familiar sweetness from her childhood to be relived.
The sky pours orange on smoking ruins whose dying orb sinks like a God who swells in anger against sacrilege. The ballerina fades into velvet darkness as coal shadows merge into solid black leaving the star-lady alone and cold in the Godless night with desolation as her supper. – John Hindle
This story is dedicated to the Ukraine where a couplet of souls flies like kites on wings of smoke whose good karma is earned by the sacrifice of small pleasures for the formless form of true finesse.
She wears her tutu proudly for her last pirouette before the exodus. At that moment, her face looks like that of Helen sailing the lake of heaven who for the first time sees the Isle of the Blest where she will share the afterlife with Achilles over tea steeped in a funeral urn from their native Ukraine.
Her nervous twitch from when she was a girl has returned like the goblins that hid beneath her bed. And she taps her toe-shoes like a street performer busking for a bus ticket home.
To say goodbye to her native soil, she walks by the shores of the Black Sea. Blue waves undulate like a dream through sun showers where the ocean heartbeat throbs. Golden streamers of sun unfurl across cerulean waters.
The blackened ruins smoke peacefully where the sea laps the pebble strewn beach. Dark clouds swirl in the salty breeze where ivory bones are encrusted in soot. Sacred relics repose in serenity amongst shattered shards of domestic bliss. Wrens nest in roofless homes whose chirps penetrate the deep well of quiet. The sound of fluttering wings softly suffuses the silence.
A courtyard is illuminated by the holy light that stands in the glow of cosmic fire. A fig tree sprouts spring leaves with tiny figs swelling on green boughs. The fecund spring Goddess blesses the wounded earth with the sweet touch of love.
Songbirds slip into silence as a fragile peace settles into cool shadows. Among the torn shards of life the fig tree bears the fruit that persists in this decimated land now that the more voracious birds of appetite have migrated for the bountiful crops of Poland leaving the familiar sweetness from her childhood to be relived.
The sky pours orange on smoking ruins whose dying orb sinks like a God who swells in anger against sacrilege. The ballerina fades into velvet darkness as coal shadows merge into solid black leaving the star-lady alone and cold in the Godless night with desolation as her supper. – John Hindle
