sparrow with razor wings
Feb. 22nd, 2009 07:36 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
anushka-excolo.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
estdeus_innobistuesday, late night
In the dream the hand that catches me burns through my skin and my flesh until it is holding charred bone. Then my own face, mouth open, my hand curling into the war god's hair, and the boy waking into his narrow bed and Iblis smiling across the table at me, and the room sifts suddenly into a storm of dust and blows up around us and catches light and swallows me in flame.
I wake spitting white petals like words onto the carpet, or words like white petals, and the world is spinning once more. It's night, and Gaueko is hunting. Moonlight is strung through the house like the last note of a sad song, moonlight and the smell of white jasmine, and spilled perfumes, and pearls, and beneath that something waiting, something always waiting.
Bare feet; moonlit grass; the moon shivering in the eyes of the puddles on Silk Road. I too have waited. Think of it as a means to an end, but the end has got lost, and the sequence is muddled, and I cannot tell means from end any longer. One must be resolute. One must see and know the truth. One must look into the burning face of the sun until sight is burned into and away. Think of all these threads and the women weaving and cutting them short who have done so for millennia. Think of them with their silver shears and the threads all singing like wire on a fence. I see you three sisters there. I see you three, and I dance across your cloth spilling fire from my skirts.
Through the town with its dim windows and its broken streets and its sleeping children. Through the town and over the bridge, and the scent of blossoms and heavy vines and long grasses beckons me. The night ushers me there.
I woke with an idea, you see. I woke with it ringing all through me. Maybe the gods worship us when they are themselves, just as we worshipped them into being. But what happens when they are no longer themselves? The deal is broken. The cloth burns. The deal is broken. "Lilith," I say into the night. Flowers stroke my skin. "Lilith."
[closed]
In the dream the hand that catches me burns through my skin and my flesh until it is holding charred bone. Then my own face, mouth open, my hand curling into the war god's hair, and the boy waking into his narrow bed and Iblis smiling across the table at me, and the room sifts suddenly into a storm of dust and blows up around us and catches light and swallows me in flame.
I wake spitting white petals like words onto the carpet, or words like white petals, and the world is spinning once more. It's night, and Gaueko is hunting. Moonlight is strung through the house like the last note of a sad song, moonlight and the smell of white jasmine, and spilled perfumes, and pearls, and beneath that something waiting, something always waiting.
Bare feet; moonlit grass; the moon shivering in the eyes of the puddles on Silk Road. I too have waited. Think of it as a means to an end, but the end has got lost, and the sequence is muddled, and I cannot tell means from end any longer. One must be resolute. One must see and know the truth. One must look into the burning face of the sun until sight is burned into and away. Think of all these threads and the women weaving and cutting them short who have done so for millennia. Think of them with their silver shears and the threads all singing like wire on a fence. I see you three sisters there. I see you three, and I dance across your cloth spilling fire from my skirts.
Through the town with its dim windows and its broken streets and its sleeping children. Through the town and over the bridge, and the scent of blossoms and heavy vines and long grasses beckons me. The night ushers me there.
I woke with an idea, you see. I woke with it ringing all through me. Maybe the gods worship us when they are themselves, just as we worshipped them into being. But what happens when they are no longer themselves? The deal is broken. The cloth burns. The deal is broken. "Lilith," I say into the night. Flowers stroke my skin. "Lilith."
[closed]
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