Tattered clouds
rippled like black slate sliding backwards on a mountaintop,
as I wound my way upwards.
The scene chilled me in a good way,
the type that gives you goosebumps, a weird half-smile and shrug of the shoulders.
A shrug almost as if to say, “so what? I’m alone with myself.
No one can hear my thoughts,
no one can snake into my heart,
no one can smear or smudge that sunset unless I say so.”
Yeah, that’s what it felt like.
A small handful of climbing hours passed,
and I found myself camped under a sharp stony ledge,
distant from his eyes,
countries away from his baleful look
mountains further than his long fingers were capable of reaching.
I began my evening by supplicating the wind to
hide my scent,
hide my dreams,
hide my skipping into worlds unknown.
Then the blue arched marble of sky began slowly to fade,
mountains peaks like broken fingers struggled to hold up the horizon
and I became tiny as the sky inched closer to my ledge.
I slid my tongue around my teeth,
feeling rather than tasting bits of sand, grit and fear,
and sat down against pale gray rock, watching, always watching.
After all, he had tried many years ago to find me,
and I never underestimated
his avarice,
his reach,
his ability to keep ravens penned up inside filthy cages of soundless misery.
Feeling the solid weight of rock behind me,
lifeless and kind,
I slowly edged myself towards sleep,
one reluctant minute at at time.
Who is "he" who tried many years to find me? Is this a known place for you, or imaginary, built on emotion? Where are you sitting? Does alot of your poetry, which seems really good in style and imagery, talk about lostness?
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