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At a cloistered, sylvan mountain lake
just before the facets of dawn’s bort
incinerates the nightly onyx mantilla,
an echelon of lustrous indigo hooded robes
with pulsating vermilion exclamation points on their chests
and effulgent, emerald skeleton hands laced together as if they were praying,
emanate from a deep gouge in the top of a charred tree stump.
The robes glide across the lake’s pellucid, placid membrane
following an vaporous magenta vanilla scented stream
until coming to the opposite shore and a rusty, wrought iron gate
that guards a Noachian and forgotten graveyard.
Passing through the closed gate
they follow a muddy path that separates
a host of dilapidated drab gray headstones
before ending at a burnished alabaster gazebo
where an incorporeal form in a golden shroud
stands in the center holding a silver sickle with its right sleeve
and in its left sleeve it holds a string of coruscating copper pearls
at the end of which there is a spinning brass plumb bob
chiming the song "Silent Night."
When the robes vanish into the shroud’s chest,
it melts,
metamorphosing into an amber lava
flowing off the gazebo and disappearing into the graves.
Purple teardrops the size of basketballs
rise from headstones and soar into the sky,
transforming into crystals that sail like shooting stars towards the cosmos
until they congregate as the Gemini constellation.
In the graveyard flickers of lights like fireflies dance among the headstones
making the sound of two children’s voices,
one sobbing and the other giggling,
changing to birdsong
whenever human ears
trespass in the numinous crib.
***This poem got longer than I wanted. A thousand apologies if the length or wording becomes too taxing on anyone's eyes. I feel cursed at times with words and images that don't seem to know when to shut up. (P.S. I hope you can appreciate what it must be like to live with my dreams/nightmares.)****
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