The Mountainside at Estis Park

1:48 AM Marcellino DAmbrosio 0 Comments

A wind blows across the cavernous expanse of my heart,
Singing like a wind pipe which pronounces to echoing hills
A myriad of sweet and painful sounds.

Oh

A word was said, so soft upon
The snowy stillness, the silent crags in the evening air,
The crisp frigid cold of sunset comes upon us like sleep

But this peace could not hold the weight
The word tumbled from your lips,
An avalanche on the quiet mountainside;

I am crushed!
I am thrown to your arms in heaps,
Covered up, enveloped in your "yes."

It was an avalanche,
But its catalyst was not born this this sweet disastrous day,
It began long before and has since been pouring down
With a slow and total force.

The lighting bolt that no one noticed but us
It struck as my thigh grazed yours
We sat together
A storm of sparks, stutters and shivers
Hidden only beneath a blanket and the thin masks
We carried on our faces
You could have stopped it then.

You could have ripped your skin from our closeness,
Gathering the pieces of your heart before they crumpled,
Taking the rest with it.

But you let it fall, and fall it did,
Tumbling, turning, exploding, hurling us
Headlong into this beautiful tumolt
Shooting cataracts of ice into the grey with deafening cracks
Towers, columns of snow slung to the heavens,
Only to float down as so much debris.
We are churned together.
What was once has been leveled,
Burst and berried under the new.

Only a single solitary shackle,
Lifting its cold iron grin from a mound of snow,
Is all that remains of the bygone cell
But soon a gust of mountain wind will carry
Its cold forgetful load and deposit it upon the waste
and all must be, will be white.

For the avalanche would have its way,
Who are we to stay its power, contain its magnificent weight?
No. I could not withstand such a cataclysm.
Neither could you.

I love you, she said, and more, so much more.

Inspiration

1:27 AM Marcellino DAmbrosio 0 Comments

The holy Pentecost of pen to paper,
When a language, then unknown to this little image of God
Returns to him, and is pressed through his being like a sieve.
These letters, scratched out of the white,
Marked and messy,
Tangled remnants of disregarded thoughts
Litter the field

But the rest remain,
Unmoved by their charred brothers,
Fixed and proud, spinning on their axis,
Spheres, wrested into being by their co creator.

They have been pulled forth and pressed through
To bring back those who have been divided since Babel
Each word is a language,
A tongue of flame above the artist's head
Prophesied foretold eons before at man's first beginning,
When the Beginning Himself said:
"Let us make him in our own likeness."

He was born to create.