cityattheedgeofnight

We have a patch of ground - around us, in the sky,
The mindless schools of fish - will meet the sharks, and die
With empty, hungry prayers - for things that fishes eat
And all the stars up there - above us in the sea.
The desert wind is cold - with no oasis near
And in the sand are those - that live without the air
With empty, hungry prayers - for things such creatures eat
And all the stars are there - above us in the sea.
And in the land of love - above us, in the sky
Are angels who approve - and meet their god and die
With empty, hungry prayers - for things that angels eat
And all the spirits there - alone out in the sea.

Pre-Raphaelite Song

To fascinate, she said to me
"My eyes have eyes that cannot see--
They hold you close, you live in me,
Power of spider I have on thee."

Over the years and the dunes we wove
And sheltered by the cliff and cove
Over the wave and the dune we wove
And marked the lights that shone above--

To captivate, she said to me
"I own all the things that shall not be--
I own our Troth. You live in me--
Power of lightning I have on thee."

I tried to breathe, but even so
She filled my lungs too long ago
I tried to swim, but even so
I loved her like the ebon snow.

Copyright 1999 by C. S. Thompson

The Lizard-Bird's Man Prophecy

The bird who haunts the swamp just screams,
Disturbed by what he calls his dreams,
Those waking dreams that might be true-
He knows his mother has them too.

"The rootless trees that stalk and eat
They're pale, they're white, they're light, they're sweet
They're made of meat, their eyes are small,
And no one hears them when they fall.

There was a time, before They grew,
When lizard-birds both hopped and flew
But then the Mayan Circle turned
As all the birds and lizards learned."

This warning he, in terror, screams
Obsessed by what he calls his dreams
Those waking dreams that might be true-
He knows his mother has them too.

Copyright 1999 by C. S. Thompson

They Are Not Like Home

And it has been years since I felt that way,
Much longer than this--
Blue quarries of grief are a mirror to me,
And so is your bliss.

Black rivers can run, and their currents can bore
Through all time of stone
But I will not swim to their depths anymore
They are not like home.

When I swallowed the life and the dirt of their bite
It was deep in my gears--
I awoke on the shore, and my eyes were the night,
And since then it's been years.

And the quarries whose waters I float, which I mine,
Are more foreign than this--
And your waters of grief are a mirror, I find--
And so is your bliss.

Copyright 1999 by C. S. Thompson