the sword,
shrieking
as it cuts through the butter of trill of lark
and of wing of butterfly
and of color of rainbow
dispassionately waiting for the severed parts
to tumble into a grave of boiling water
running all the way into an endless sunset,
sliding
through the heart of pebble of rivers
and of bed of seas
and of ink of escaping squids
mindlessly watching the gash in world's inner skin
as flailing life boils itself to evaporating steam
flowing into a monster grave of eternally molten ores,
slicing
crawling rivers of magma
into death before and death after
and nothing but death
as its cutting edge emerges indifferently victorious over nothing
but the grandiosity of dream
while ash pours through a constricted throat
to a grave of cooling passion and basalt rock,
swishing
back into blue and ash and vapor
as furrow and boulder and mountain fall apart
seeding as many tombstones
for those pieces of animated clay wielding as many sub-versions
of saber and dagger and rapier and cutlass
aloofly
to sub-cut themselves into sub-pieces of clay and mud and dust,
and the poet sits back, awed into the fright of annihilation,
waiting for all the halves and halves of halves
to fall apart and disintegrate into the sun
and looking for the reason why they do not
with the lark still taking to air
and the pebble still rolling with the river
and boiling magma still coalescing into poppy studded rock
and clay still dancing with clay,
until he finds the reason, the only,
in the touch
of fingertips against fingertips
and the caress of lips against lips
and the brush of chest against breast
and the feel
of lover
against
lover.
the power.
In a list
A contest entry
- Four years of illumination by Sandi Alford.
1250 points, ended March 10, 14 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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great poem, very ambitious. I really like this phrase "as flailing life boils itself to evaporating steam"
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A lover's touch is power incarnate. It wields the sword into molten heart, overflowing it's confined crator and cools to ash as the lark flys free to sing in abandonment. What a wonderous metaphor for love, as earth in all it's forms (magma, rocks and dust) Extremely well done poet
Thank you for joining me on my path of illumination, best wishes!
many blessings, Sandi
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A+
After reading this poem I have one of those special unpronounced feelings of beauty... the power of your words is turned to incredible poetry, the power of your poetry is love... oh, you, the poet. 
~Sonja~
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oh, you, adorable lady thank you
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yes, if we don't have love, have touch, the kiss, the power...then all our words are worth nothing - and how well you poetize the only word >>>> love-in-motion...
~ Nicolette
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thank you, most gracious nicolette
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