SYLVIAN CITY
The following piece was first published in print, in First Offense magazine.
Text and image © S.V.Wolfland. All rights reserved.
Stirring something
Long dead
Long forgotten
A mark of drawn blood
Or a sacrament
A spire
A spiral
A pattern of stars
A stained glass window
Like a wounded knife
Or a wasted cerebral twist
Like three white trees
Or a daemon in paint
Or the tears of mutant tiger.
A wolf amongst trees
Or the quad of a cloister
Chimes flower
Like narcissi in sleet.
In these neat lawns
In these dark tall alleys
Of spire, of
Battlement,
Of turret and
Arch
Is the darkness that calls to
The high white moon,
The shadow that
Penetrates stone.
Rime clouds
The glass,
To tell us of
A time when
The Gates
Shall fall
A time of ceremony,
Of portent, to come.
The arc and
The glass
The symmetry
Of walkways
The spine of a
Spun wax lizard.
Chesspieces around
A brandy glass,
Speak of silent seances
A White Altar
Burning like
Sun-core
From tripod
From candle
From magick
And Blaze.
Crucifixes cover
White walls,
Four corners
Depict icons
The masks
Ribboned in
Shimmering snakes
Shed tears
Of wax
And ice. As
The whip of
The split lip
Makes a fitting
Epitaph.
