lazarus
Blue Crack Supplier
sorry I've been away for a while. Tried to catch up on some of everyone's recent work. Apologies to L. Frank Baum on this one for borrowing his characters and using them to achieve my own ends. This one's a bit old-fashioned/Ren-Fair, to be honest, and there's no Toto...
THE GOLDEN ROAD
Fields of poppies,
acres of graves,
where ne'er reaped rows of upturned ears,
dormant in huskcaskets,
are privy to the Tin Man's charge--
that souls are slighted without hearts
her departure,
his devastation;
virgin tears on his silver skin
say the echo of her footfalls
are but one turned page behind;
the wound is fresh and fluid,
begging to be cauterized:
she rode into the market
with flowing mane
and swelled proudeagle chest,
her neck a pedestal
for the sculpture of her visage;
her garments dyed
with crimsonberry juice,
threads spun on a wheel of gold
on this willowed afternoon,
where first he intercepted
the pierce of her gaze
as a target draws noble arrows,
the wind played madness
with slender frames and weather vanes,
but this freshly rooted tree
was proved to stand her ground
with a chrom'ed hand he took her own:
his greeting but the sunshower of a kiss;
the refreshing intrusion raising a brow
and the hairs on her nape were informed
her champion was won
in absence of contest,
no mounting of steeds
or raising of arms;
she was his from the dawning,
meant to wash up on this coast,
none other
yet the fourposts of their sleeping vessel
were not fortified for endless yoyage;
once the lustre dulled the slightest hint
four thumbs pricked with sadness knowing
the isle's sand kissed her soles farewell,
his eyes averted from bearing witness
to the anchorrise and sunfall
of their mayfly anniversary;
she waved like a tattered shipwreck flag
and descended with horizon's eyelids
thus in dent the Tin Man bruised,
the tarnish spreads o'er shackled ankles
and rust creeps steady up love-cuffed wrists;
this heart which stowed away
on a departing maiden's ship,
from wound's inflictment hence unmissed,
scratches the door on restless nights
and yearns to sing in daylight bliss
this voice which leads
to palaces of jade,
castles of emerald,
unheeded in its plaintive spirit,
cries out for recognition
and shatters ill-stained myth,
for curtains hide but little magic
and home is no place
where a heart lives not
the jungle's king shakes in fear--
soon crisis will find him with valor;
the true voice swells once listened to,
its whisper a wind to brush sages away,
delivering sunburst epiphanies
that light the way to soul's residence,
where doors of newborned lovers
bear skeins spangled and wreathed
here at journey's end,
the Tin Man's solitary friend,
nary a thought to hinge a hope on
but the smile to stray the course
(his strawed shoulder a respite
for cries and creaking joints),
is resigned to pay no mind--
this stuffed soldier,
minister of harvest,
ward of goldcoat grains
and bane to opaque birds
that haunt the dreams of farmers' sons.
laz
THE GOLDEN ROAD
Fields of poppies,
acres of graves,
where ne'er reaped rows of upturned ears,
dormant in huskcaskets,
are privy to the Tin Man's charge--
that souls are slighted without hearts
her departure,
his devastation;
virgin tears on his silver skin
say the echo of her footfalls
are but one turned page behind;
the wound is fresh and fluid,
begging to be cauterized:
she rode into the market
with flowing mane
and swelled proudeagle chest,
her neck a pedestal
for the sculpture of her visage;
her garments dyed
with crimsonberry juice,
threads spun on a wheel of gold
on this willowed afternoon,
where first he intercepted
the pierce of her gaze
as a target draws noble arrows,
the wind played madness
with slender frames and weather vanes,
but this freshly rooted tree
was proved to stand her ground
with a chrom'ed hand he took her own:
his greeting but the sunshower of a kiss;
the refreshing intrusion raising a brow
and the hairs on her nape were informed
her champion was won
in absence of contest,
no mounting of steeds
or raising of arms;
she was his from the dawning,
meant to wash up on this coast,
none other
yet the fourposts of their sleeping vessel
were not fortified for endless yoyage;
once the lustre dulled the slightest hint
four thumbs pricked with sadness knowing
the isle's sand kissed her soles farewell,
his eyes averted from bearing witness
to the anchorrise and sunfall
of their mayfly anniversary;
she waved like a tattered shipwreck flag
and descended with horizon's eyelids
thus in dent the Tin Man bruised,
the tarnish spreads o'er shackled ankles
and rust creeps steady up love-cuffed wrists;
this heart which stowed away
on a departing maiden's ship,
from wound's inflictment hence unmissed,
scratches the door on restless nights
and yearns to sing in daylight bliss
this voice which leads
to palaces of jade,
castles of emerald,
unheeded in its plaintive spirit,
cries out for recognition
and shatters ill-stained myth,
for curtains hide but little magic
and home is no place
where a heart lives not
the jungle's king shakes in fear--
soon crisis will find him with valor;
the true voice swells once listened to,
its whisper a wind to brush sages away,
delivering sunburst epiphanies
that light the way to soul's residence,
where doors of newborned lovers
bear skeins spangled and wreathed
here at journey's end,
the Tin Man's solitary friend,
nary a thought to hinge a hope on
but the smile to stray the course
(his strawed shoulder a respite
for cries and creaking joints),
is resigned to pay no mind--
this stuffed soldier,
minister of harvest,
ward of goldcoat grains
and bane to opaque birds
that haunt the dreams of farmers' sons.
laz
