This week I was revising some poetry I had written and decided I was going to do something different. This is one of the longest poems I've ever written, and probably one of my favorites imagery-wise. I really hope somebody else at least enjoys it. One last thing: I truly am sorry to anyone who needs a rhyme scheme in poetry, but I'm a little more free form. I'm currently writing part two for it as well.
The Writer's Journey
“You are the night bloomer, where the moon shines silver.”
The serene garden, filled with jasmine scent, Grants new permanence in the unbound.
When the prince had shaken the sand off his feet,
Made hard by abrasive desert life,
The oasis welcomes him, opening in greenery and floral decadence.
A mirror to the moon, the petals stark white, made of moondust.
A thousand years have passed since this alcove has been made tangible,
A thousand more shall pass before another soul shall breathe its air.
Sitting for a moment in the reservoir, the prince recounted his arduous tale to the flowers.
They listened, for lack of ears, and took note of his regal influence.
He told of rolling hills, miles of trees with jagged roots that stood above their leaves,
Islands that had no hold on the earth, impassable seas of crimson waters,
A place where the rivers flowed not through the earth, but the sky.
He told of a quest, given by a star through the voice of an echo in the valley.
A task which brought him by way of rugged mountain passage, past their oasis.
He only had moments to stop before moving onward, his task of such vitality.
The flowers, having no voice, begged him to stay and tell another story,
But he did not hear them.
Again the visions plagued him,
Their screaming clarity ever staining his mind.
We converse on the quality of a thousand nightmares
Never present, always present
There are one hundred flames, there are one million
I have seen them all, they play out as instructed, as willed
As they will, not as they must, as they should, as they can.
Forge for me a nightmare of stardust, of tremors and wraiths.
Present me with the present state of affairs, a modern calamity.
Write until your fingers bleed, Staining the paper crimson,
That the contrast might make your words clearer, ring more true to your soul.
The prince, having left the oasis miles behind him,
Found a forest held in sanctifying light, luminescence from the trees themselves.
He whispered to them wonders of the worlds he had traveled,
Of the oasis filled with jasmine, where the water was not wet,
When he crossed the chasm in the sky to find this world.
He told more of his quest, much different from the foliage and their place in the world.
The star had a child, but it had fallen to earth,
Not the earth the prince had come from, but this land, so to speak.
The prince was to search for the child until he should find it,
Or until entropy claimed his bones.
And they, as the jasmine, were astounded.
Spellbound.
