A Ghost in my Arms

Like snowfall, it cries a silent storm

The frozen tears paint rivers upon this oaken wall
Amber dropping, ancient pyre red ichor
Cascading; into increasing streams of this hallowed form
For each stain, a forsaken shadow

Wandering lugubrious spirit
Etched in the oak of wonder and esteem
You are the sullen voice and silent storm

Each night I lay…
Awakened by the shivering silent voice
From the shapes in the corridor walls.
It pierces the solitude like that of a distant scream
In the pitch-black forest of their delusion

With each passing day, a deeper grave
Their haunting, contorted despair was etched into the wood’s grain, the oaken grip
Though fire rages, no fire burns fiercer than her desire
The shape whispers my name

I damn this oak
I damn the sorrow
I traverse these oaken corridors
That bear the ghosts of those I’ve thrown away

Though tempted I am to caress her texture divine
I must burn these halls, these corridors
And silence her shrill, tormenting voice forever

Like snowfall, you cried a silent storm
No tears stain this dust in my hands
But from this ashen gray, her voice still
Whispers my name

You were the Geist that warned this frozen silent storm
You were but a ghost in my arms
Through vast valleys I wander
To the highest peaks
On pathways through a wild forgotten landscape
In search of God, in spite of man
’til the lost forsaken endless
This is where I choose to tread

Here is the landscape
Here is the sun
Here in the balance of the earth
Where is the god?
Has he fallen and abandoned us?

As are stalked by the shadow of death’s hand
The fire in my heart is forged across the land
Touching the untouchable, seeing the un-seeable

Here at the edge of this world
Here I gaze at a pantheon of oak, a citadella of stone
If this grand panorama before me is what you call God
Then God is not dead

I walked down to a river and sat in reflection of what had to be done
An offering of crimson flowed into the water below
A wound of spirit from which it floated and faded away

As every hope I’ve ever had
As every dream I’ve ever manifested
It washed away; the tide of longing, a longing for a better world
From my will, my throat, to the river, and into the sea

Where is the god?
Has he fallen to ruin?

As I’m stalked by the shadow of death’s hand
My heathen pride is scarred across the land
When all is withered and torn
And all has perished and fallen
These great wooden doors shall remain bound

When the heart is a grave filled with blood
And the soul is a cold and haunted shell of lost hope
When the voice of pride has been silenced
And dignity’s fires are but cinders of the untainted

This grandeur that protects the spirit within
From the plight of this broken world, from the wounds in her song
A wish to end with a will and spirit intact
The will that inspired me to write these words
Seek not the fallen to unlock these wooden doors

Life is a clay urn on the mantle
And I am shattered on the floor
We are the wounds and the great cold death of the earth

Earth is floating on the waters like an island,
Hanging from four rawhide ropes
Fastened at the top of the sacrosanct four directions.

Life is a clay urn on the mantle
And I am the fragments on the floor
We are the ashes on the floor
We are the wounds and the great cold death of the earth
Darkness and silence, the light shall flicker out
The jagged lines in these wooden hands
Speak of a silent æon below the depths
Of an austere ebon tide
For centuries kingdoms have risen
Upon the ancient hands of a god
Now darkness is thine sanctum

Temples of magma stream across the grey
The arc that transcends my iconic pride
For I am not an ageless god, no, I am imprisoned by time
These ancient palms shall once again be mine

Hands…
Those hands that lift the oceans
To vertical depths above the stars
For when I pass, the universe will die with me
And all will be lost forever gone

Where am I?
Forlorn in the cold Neolithic embrace
Forsaken deep in the sullen tide
How long shall I suffer here?

Perched on the Cliffside gazing out into the brine
My archaic beard pours downward and joins the feral sea
I am the heritage; the quintessence of myth and legend
The archetype of Pagan might and divinity

I gather a celestial blanket around these tired bones
And finally slumber in the clouds of ice
These are my hands…
…they wear so it is done
Now Blue textures cascade downward to the base of the monolith
Like brush strokes on a canvas of souls
Two arms reach out a cloak of silent nihil
Revenants untouched by the scythe
They are lost in the dark woods of time

Aloft in the landscape that you hail
I am the fog that seeps over here in the early hours
Standing proud in the hollow of the land
A vestige of deeper purity etched in spirit against the sky

Deep Runic signs carved in limbs of oaken sovereignty
And could see the ages growing from within the palms
I can feel the era slipping into oblivion,
No longer grasping the textures
I slowly become stone

As wolves celebrate the dusk,
An old voice of wisdom haunts the vale

Shapes flicker; flicker in the fire light through the windows
The woodlands burn with grace
Their silence drowns the age

As wandering ghosts pass through the flames
A new age of rebirth lights the dawn

But who are they who pass by the window?
They; the shapes; like black solar wheels scorched in the snow
by gods of the stone, The elder stones that never fall

Cast the æons into the void
So that no other can seek them
No age, not any hands shall taint them
Pour the sorrows into the sun
They are lost forever in dark woods of time
Carve the symbols into the stone
So that another can find them

Fore Written in the waters…

“Our shadows seep into the dusk
Like cranes that melt into the pool;
A black lake in which they descend
Pale ghosts caress the parched soul in the dark
Its face scarred by the ages,
Its curse sent with heathen breath
To poison the waters of the black lake
We are… we are the faces below the ripples
A deep sorrow travelled through the woods
And found a home in our humble grave”
The black temple of the Earth
Fore the silence inside the tomb
You created the stars
And gave birth to all the heavens;
The darkness of space and time
So go… go to the nightside end below”
There are ghosts in every hallway
In every room, behind every door
Peering through every window into the past
Holding onto us in the bitterness of the mire
Leaving a trace of themselves in the spaces in which they hide

…but there are no ghosts here…

There are gods in the wake of every flame
The fire that betroths the coldness of the void
In every wind, every tempest, and every snowfall
In every silence
Inside every root that reaches deep into the soul of the Earth

…but there are no gods here…

Shadows paint the dusk
Ghosts rise from the flames
To set alight in the fields
In robes of smoke and spirit aligned
Escaping the weight of darkness
To forge a path into the marrow of the spirit
They chose to drown in a deeper vacancy
An emptiness that quells the null
A pool for the forgotten

They escaped the weight of darkness
To drown in another…

The woeful silence and wind’s reflection
Of your body’s pale ode, an icy fortress of blood and ages
Sky fire above, ice below the hearth
Fall away from me to that citadel at the end of time
Where death sleeps and dreams of your buried pain
There has never been a silence like this before
There will never be an ode like this again
Aurora swims in the ether
Emerald fire scars the night sky

Amber streams from Sol
Are not unlike the waves of the sea
Nor the endless horizon of ice

The eternal tree bleeds the golden nectar
For the raising sun and the moon
The midnight wolves that watch over the dawn of eternity.

Ian V. Seymour ©2014 (January 2)

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