Ghavrel

As I travelled through the woods of my home I stumbled upon a railroad track and, having no engagements impressed on my mind, decided to see where my feet would find me. No trains had come for several years- this much was told by the vines and saplings which grew defiantly in the tracks, wrapping around wood and uprooting metal. Nature does not despise industry. She merely waits, and, when the little men have had their fun, she cleans up their mess and lets them move on to greener fields. Such were my thoughts when I found a field of my own, as yet unspoiled but for the track which lanced across it with steel and planks and iro

si astrae potessent attingi me, carperem manu unam ex nocte et darem tibi astram amore. astram et amorem me accipe.

Up arose the land, and the two knew terror in their hearts. For it was fair wondrous to see such things, yet the wood-nymph knew full well the hatred and wars on her people such giants held, and the human recalled stories of old, stories which spoke in hushed whispers of monsters of frost and snow, men of unimaginable size. The land-giant (for that is what they were called in those days) looked down upon them with his dark, unblinking eyes. The wood-nymph wept in fear, but it was the pale woman who spoke in courage. "We seek, O Ancient Elder, a cursed land not far from these hallowed grounds." A thousand pardons came from her lips, as she b

It lurks in all the silences―we cover them up with a nervous laugh. It has devoured our cities, and we can only stave it off with chatter. But when we are alone, out alone in the wilderness, then comes along Satan (or we come to him, more likely yet), and things that shouldn't be said are spoken. At least they have some meaning.

Here there were flames, and here they have passed, leaving in their hunger the dark and barren ground. Look back to yesterday, years ago, when the cane gave up its life in orgiastic spasms, shuddering in the breeze that scattered its cremated remains. Soot, blown aloft by the wind, spiraling upwards into the Empyrean, the heat cooled by celestial winds, the ember's anger placated by the sky. Now begins their decline, ribbons of shadow descending into the city, pilgrims from the countryside. They merge with the shade of buildings and trees, twist downward, scatter on the windshield of car. A young boy on a playground grabs one and

Spring's minuet is but a memory, light, blemishless, pristine in your mind. The prim and proper paths of footwork echoing in halls of budding flowers and fresh greens. The mind grows bored with rote. And Summer's tango, sultry, smelling of sweat and sex. This, too, abandoned after a time. Perhaps the beat has grown tired, too; listen. A note has dropped out. Enter Autumn, in her gown of Falling leaves, bark-brown gloves to her elbows, the shoes, like the rest, slightly worn. You will grow tired of her, eventually. Winter will come with her chilly pavane and snow white lace and frosty gaze and you will abandon the lady wh

A cough, a hack, a wheezing bark! With these I more than play the part of sickly man, with swollen head, living still but feeling dead.