Giants Beneath the Crag
The fuggy fog crept round the craggy peaks,
Where giants slept beneath a sombre veil,
Their dreams, like waves, crashed down in broken streaks,
Beneath the sky, the wandering gulls would wail.
A sailor lost upon the ocean frail,
Clung tight to hope, though darkness stole his sight,
His ship’s old siderail tossed by gale,
The giants called him homeward through the night.
The winds did howl, and breakers struck the land,
The crag stood firm against the ocean’s might,
The fuggy haze rolled in, a ghostly hand,
To lead the sailor far beyond his plight.
His heart beat loud beneath the wild moonlight,
He grasped the wheel, though lost in blackened hail,
The waves now reached to drown his final fight,
The giants called him homeward through the night.
A lonely cry now echoed through the bay,
The fog grew thick as stars began to pale,
His ship broke free, though battered, worn, and grey,
The currents strained against the weary sail.
With trembling breath, he hoped the crag would fail,
And grant him rest upon that solid height,
But still, the gulls gave forth their mournful wail,
The giants called him homeward through the night.
The cliffs stand tall, their shadows swift in flight,
The moon has fled, and still, the seas prevail,
Beneath the crag, the sailor’s ship is slight,
The giants called him homeward through the night.
Path of Flint
I walk this raw path, stones scabbed with frost,
Each step a shiver, a bruise beneath my skin.
They bite at me, cold-toothed, lean and sharp,
Spilling my shadow into their silence.
Is there mercy here, in stone and grey?
Only hollow clinks, a broken hum.
These stones are mothers, hard-lipped, severe,
Grinding my name down to gravel and dust.
I feel their teeth, the scrape of bone.
Ahead lies only a thin-boned light,
A silver thread drawn tight as wire—
As if reaching were punishment, ascent.
I vault forward, bare-footed, bold,
Every wound a gift, each bruise a price,
Marking the miles in blood and salt.
The Silence of Meaning
The air folds, blue and unbecoming,
As words drift like faint moths,
Their wings dusted with the ash of intent.
A river speaks in its curling flow,
But language breaks on its mirrored surface.
Once, syllables held the sheen of ripe fruit,
Each phrase a spindle of clear light.
Now, only shadows peregrinate the mind—
A tableau of absence framed in the dusk.
Words, emptied of their savour, spiral downward,
Falling into the ground’s patient oblivion.
Is there meaning in the wind’s hesitations?
In the weight of a starless sky?
The world reshapes itself in silence,
A quiet more vivid than any utterance.
Ms. Pipia attended Parsons School of Design (BFA), Touro University School of Law (J.D.), and the University of Phoenix (MBA/HRM).
No comments:
Post a Comment