Golden Hour

I remember this place in autumn as the world folded in on the moments before dawn a weight was laid to rest you thought we'd freeze there together standing in awe of the roots that formed themselves into the shape of a cradle a naive promise whispered out to the forest: "I'll trade my life for Yours" and the word was swallowed by freezing mist that wrapped us like a blanket in a dream: the towers crumbled every light blinks out one by one broken doesn't mean barren, as the ghost of a pattern chills your spine the semiotics of the natural world: a dying state spells a reborn life and you could feel more than see a dash of pale orange somewhere in the eastern sky and your heart shudders to life at the thought of sunlight touching skin

We held on so hard. the bleeding palms, broken fingers and downturned eyes... constantly dissecting minutia just to mask the sound of breaking hands I'm not saying I'm perfect and I'm not saying it's your fault but why keep bathing in ashes? why are you surprised to see blood underneath torn skin? just pour another round of poison, (for our own safety of course) promise again that this is all worthwhile taking aim with a regretful smile, and another longwinded praise of failure: what remains isn't passive numbness but an active absence of feeling. So go on rip and tear, rip and tear, rip and tear

I attempt a circle back to the point of infection - and a revelation hidden in smoke Face to face with death, armed and brutal a phalanx with empty eyes, minds torn and forced to fit They are the glacial wall, cracked, holding an inland sea. Is this where I'm to give the devils name? Is that the one useful thing left to say? Instead: Unearth the hatchet, compose a binding poem put down the flowers - for every part of this is beauty quiet the melody - for we hold an uplifting thing hush the playful chords - when it's time for arms to sing. is it too much to ask, for the end of everything? to call and raise that scrap of midnight cloth one final time? In the future I see: routed then buried the rot, and I watch her walk free the sun shines down on a wild land, shielded by this memory. and they'll suffer no longer from hunger, they'll suffer no longer from thirst.

A golden most brilliant light guides my feet back to the mountains below forever walking in time. and my only belief: this unchanging cycle in pitting ourselves against this world what could we have hoped to win? from crashing waves, to echoing cries all of us gave our blood at some time, in a futile attempt to survive with every misstep we took spiraling faithlessly on sense of direction long lost and the sun, humbly kept rising blinding frustrated eyes. we piled bones on top of bones to hold back the tides. it will be said: "their tragedy was that they prayed for rain, and died not believing it ever came. in the end they had words for torture, but forgot the word for pain." while oceans rose we threw a message out to the sea dreamt up a mechanical god, indignant at the suggestion of ancient beauty but I hope there's some place out there where our prayers survived life did exist here in this sacred sliver of time its golden hour it's getting cold tell me there is a way to give this story a meaningful end need every sunset bring with it death? I forget the sound of birds at sunrise I forget my ancestors names I forget the thriving forest I forget the brilliant sea I forget the blooming meadow I forget astonishing peaks I forget the community of life I forget the continuity of life I forget the pitch of nurturing voice I can't remember dawn.