ROOTS OF THE EARTH

Abgrund

This one originated on a motorcycle ride.

Foolishly you dreamt yourself a butterfly
Feeling yourself free from the weight of the Earth
You will bear the weight of my dreams at the roots of the Earth 

How dare you imagine yourself merely mortal
To be spared in the end from the fate of the Earth
You will yet bare your throat before the roots of the Earth 

In a cave you saw my shadow dimly glow
No shadows are cast in the heart of the Earth
What is real may only be felt at the roots of the Earth 

On the surface of knowledge you deem yourself wise
Yet quail before secrets in the dark of the Earth
Your wisdom is lost in terror at the roots of the Earth 

When the tide rolls the sand you churn and boil
You are known to the the slow cold hollows of the Earth
Bury your guilt in my flesh, burned at the roots of the Earth 

I carve the uncarved block you will never touch
While you blindfold yourself on the gallows of the Earth
Hanged between the empty heavens and the roots of the Earth 

Take the blue pill, take the red pill, I care not
You have no soul to match the scars of the Earth
You are motion without color at the roots of the earth 

The baleful ashes of monstrous forgotten stars
Chafed ancient feuds before the start of the earth
Waiting, I gnaw parched bones beneath the roots of the earth

 

PINNACLES OF ICE

Abgrund

This one was inspired by this winter’s first winter storm.

If I were a poet, I would write words of despair and of ice
I would bare my soul to the wind on cruel pinnacles of ice 

If I were a poet, I would write her endless farewells
They would writhe for eternity above pinnacles of ice 

If I were a poet, I would ride before the wind
In a fury of sleet shrieking against pinnacles of ice 

If I were a poet, I would turn the blankets down
Bury the glow of this wan life under pinnacles of ice 

If I were a poet, I would know the weight of winter
I would feel the harsh breath of pinnacles of ice 

If I were a poet, I would flow like deep water
A frozen trickle lost beneath pinnacles of ice 

If I were a poet, I would throw my fate to sharp winds
Wash my frozen soul in slow-carved pinnacles of ice