Il Fiore Della Bruma P1

In a moment, a lapse of anguish Through the sanded markets that The mind implored. Dust coughed up And crystallised silence; Each moan and cry Of every wrapped face Became a whisper, As blood might echo an unheard drip Into a lake of cold concern. I do not know how the street kings felt For upon re-opening they continued much the same; Decrepit focus on none but their own. It would sadden me to think the whip of this Aged and ground earth Was nothing more than an inconvenience… But I do not know how the street kings felt, For my only sense was the smell of mud from my hands, As I pushed my eyelids shut. I was never one of the stalls; I had played that game and not liked it. Instead what was I? Scarce confess more than a ghost. I had dropped an eye into the weeping tomb, I had retraced each bone with affection And made self-labour of their wandering loss. I had carved a hole so deep within That I may plunge. Rise as I did, in the scope of the curious I had no form known to this winding world. I had a difference, for sure, there was much that I could not now. Only sleep and give; remaining as dead as I ever was. I lay naked upon the grazing sand, Skin as cold as the failing tree. But in this moment The mournful fled, My arms less heavy than known. The wind spluttered, Shook its anchor from retreat, Revealing sights of the like That opens the lungs. An image serene, that beauty becomes existence. I had dropped an eye into the weeping tomb Now, returned with a thousand unseen truths. This scope, upon which all light was born, This blessing, upon which my skin was warmed, This infinitely gentle and delicate sky That I had long looked for. Myself had withered and decayed To reignite a brighter flame. And as this new form, My mind was able to understand these sights. I lay still upon my back, My eyes awake with the possibility, My mouth gaped; Hope wrapped its arms, like a quilt; I was soothed enough. And as in a touch, I breathed.