Writings of the Month
Prismatic Moon
By W. Chastain
I'd heard of a place just beyond the horizon,
Where tornadoes and hilltops are one and the same.
A hole in the skyline, just our of God's eyesight
Where not even Death can remember your name.
Where the mythic and fabled both giggle and cheer
As they dance off the beat of an old favored tune,
And escape with each other to a fantastic Valley
And bask in the glow of the Prismatic Moon.
But the Sirens who sang of this place made me wary
When they said that the Valley defends itself well;
A curtain of fire surrounds this Nirvana,
And only the bravest can this tempest quell.
Now Bravery's a sword I can't claim to carry,
Though I've earnestly yearned for it's blade to betroth.
The sword that I wield is of much lesser quality:
It's made of my wit and my cowardice both.
I've fought many battles with the weapon I carry,
Tasting both sweet victory and bitter defeat.
And though I've discovered many lands in my travels,
I never have found the Valley I seek.
So I gave up on finding my way to the Valley
And hoped to find comfort in sleep. But instead,
I found passion's a hard habit to break,
And would revisit the Sirens each night in my head.
They'd sing of a place just beyond the horizon
Where deserts ran parallel to foresty plains.
The wing beats of angels would silence the nightmares,
And not even Death would remember your name.
The stars in the sky would shine in the daytime,
Then fall to the ground when darkness would loom,
To join in the party that lasted forever
Under the gaze of the Prismatic Moon.
But, as it goes, the Valley did vanish,
And left only ghosts to tread in it's wake.
The passage of time had dulled out my passion.
My habit, it seems, did finally break.
I aimlessly wandered the fields of reality,
Not daring to care for where the days went.
I shuffled through sanity with meager expressions,
And foolishly told myself I was content.
That is, until, one day in my musings,
I was happened upon by an angelic form,
Her beauty was striking-breathtakingly so,
Yet her presence was both soothing and warm.
Her eyes burned with passion that couldn't be caged,
And glowed with a talent that couldn't be taught.
Her smile beamed of laughter, compassion, and strength,
And brought to my mind dreams I'd thought I'd forgot.
I dreamt of a place just beyond the horizon
Where people would laugh at the mention of pain;
For the Valley was flooded with waves of serenity,
And not even Death can remember your name.
The trees held their limbs open in welcome,
Like statues that beckoned the hunted and doomed
To share with them in their perpetual levity.
And send up their praise to the Prismatic Moon.
I spoke with the angel about loves and desires,
Of pasts and of futures and of all times in between.
I came to a discover my angel was human,
She'd seen many sights that I, too, had seen.
She told me of tragedies she'd had to endure.
Showed me her skin marked with scars that she cleverly hid.
But her eyes sparked with passion and personal fealty;
Her voice may have wavered, but her gaze never did.
Perfection she wasn't, but all that she was
Was wonderful, magnetic, amazing and real.
Her scars did nothing to mar her beauty,
In my eyes she was an angel still.
But the words of her stories never struck me as hard
As the words that she used to describe what she'd seen
As she stared at the back of her eyelids each night.
She broke through my heart when she told me her dreams.
She dreamt of a place just beyond the horizon,
Suspended on clouds filled with upside-down rain.
A gap in the painting displayed on God's easel,
Where not even Death can remember your name.
Where whiskey cascaded over the cliffs made of emerald,
The scent of magenta filled every room.
Where fairies told every tale that they had;
Their eyes a reflection of the Prismatic Moon.
A spark had ignited in the pit of my stomach.
It burned with one simple question: "Could it be
That there's one person out there who's traveled for years
In search of the very same Valley as me?"
The spark turned to embers, then to up-roaring flames,
And placing my sword in the forge they had made,
I wrought a new blade made of Bravery and Hope.
My passion, this time, could never be swayed.
I spoke to my angel of my newfound desire
To use my new blade to change my world's view.
I wanted her with me to realize our dream,
For without her I knew that it wouldn't come true.
But my angel withdrew my blade from my hand,
And instead pulled me down to her side as to keep
My body as close to her as possible,
And with a soft kiss, she lulled me to sleep.
We awoke in a Valley just beyond the horizon
When we realized our affections were one and the same.
And we scoffed at the thought of erasing tomorrow,
For the Reaper had yet to remember our names.
And we shared an embrace that was meant for new lovers,
And giggled and hummed to an old favored tune,
We realized we'd found our escape in each other,
And kissed in the light of the Prismatic Moon.
----------------
Brought to you by the courtesy of my lovely boyfriend.
By W. Chastain
I'd heard of a place just beyond the horizon,
Where tornadoes and hilltops are one and the same.
A hole in the skyline, just our of God's eyesight
Where not even Death can remember your name.
Where the mythic and fabled both giggle and cheer
As they dance off the beat of an old favored tune,
And escape with each other to a fantastic Valley
And bask in the glow of the Prismatic Moon.
But the Sirens who sang of this place made me wary
When they said that the Valley defends itself well;
A curtain of fire surrounds this Nirvana,
And only the bravest can this tempest quell.
Now Bravery's a sword I can't claim to carry,
Though I've earnestly yearned for it's blade to betroth.
The sword that I wield is of much lesser quality:
It's made of my wit and my cowardice both.
I've fought many battles with the weapon I carry,
Tasting both sweet victory and bitter defeat.
And though I've discovered many lands in my travels,
I never have found the Valley I seek.
So I gave up on finding my way to the Valley
And hoped to find comfort in sleep. But instead,
I found passion's a hard habit to break,
And would revisit the Sirens each night in my head.
They'd sing of a place just beyond the horizon
Where deserts ran parallel to foresty plains.
The wing beats of angels would silence the nightmares,
And not even Death would remember your name.
The stars in the sky would shine in the daytime,
Then fall to the ground when darkness would loom,
To join in the party that lasted forever
Under the gaze of the Prismatic Moon.
But, as it goes, the Valley did vanish,
And left only ghosts to tread in it's wake.
The passage of time had dulled out my passion.
My habit, it seems, did finally break.
I aimlessly wandered the fields of reality,
Not daring to care for where the days went.
I shuffled through sanity with meager expressions,
And foolishly told myself I was content.
That is, until, one day in my musings,
I was happened upon by an angelic form,
Her beauty was striking-breathtakingly so,
Yet her presence was both soothing and warm.
Her eyes burned with passion that couldn't be caged,
And glowed with a talent that couldn't be taught.
Her smile beamed of laughter, compassion, and strength,
And brought to my mind dreams I'd thought I'd forgot.
I dreamt of a place just beyond the horizon
Where people would laugh at the mention of pain;
For the Valley was flooded with waves of serenity,
And not even Death can remember your name.
The trees held their limbs open in welcome,
Like statues that beckoned the hunted and doomed
To share with them in their perpetual levity.
And send up their praise to the Prismatic Moon.
I spoke with the angel about loves and desires,
Of pasts and of futures and of all times in between.
I came to a discover my angel was human,
She'd seen many sights that I, too, had seen.
She told me of tragedies she'd had to endure.
Showed me her skin marked with scars that she cleverly hid.
But her eyes sparked with passion and personal fealty;
Her voice may have wavered, but her gaze never did.
Perfection she wasn't, but all that she was
Was wonderful, magnetic, amazing and real.
Her scars did nothing to mar her beauty,
In my eyes she was an angel still.
But the words of her stories never struck me as hard
As the words that she used to describe what she'd seen
As she stared at the back of her eyelids each night.
She broke through my heart when she told me her dreams.
She dreamt of a place just beyond the horizon,
Suspended on clouds filled with upside-down rain.
A gap in the painting displayed on God's easel,
Where not even Death can remember your name.
Where whiskey cascaded over the cliffs made of emerald,
The scent of magenta filled every room.
Where fairies told every tale that they had;
Their eyes a reflection of the Prismatic Moon.
A spark had ignited in the pit of my stomach.
It burned with one simple question: "Could it be
That there's one person out there who's traveled for years
In search of the very same Valley as me?"
The spark turned to embers, then to up-roaring flames,
And placing my sword in the forge they had made,
I wrought a new blade made of Bravery and Hope.
My passion, this time, could never be swayed.
I spoke to my angel of my newfound desire
To use my new blade to change my world's view.
I wanted her with me to realize our dream,
For without her I knew that it wouldn't come true.
But my angel withdrew my blade from my hand,
And instead pulled me down to her side as to keep
My body as close to her as possible,
And with a soft kiss, she lulled me to sleep.
We awoke in a Valley just beyond the horizon
When we realized our affections were one and the same.
And we scoffed at the thought of erasing tomorrow,
For the Reaper had yet to remember our names.
And we shared an embrace that was meant for new lovers,
And giggled and hummed to an old favored tune,
We realized we'd found our escape in each other,
And kissed in the light of the Prismatic Moon.
----------------
Brought to you by the courtesy of my lovely boyfriend.
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