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Knight of Swords

The thoughts come galloping, cypress trees quake in their wake. Vincent Van Gogh had a thing for cypress trees, and I dreamed I was a cypress once. My mask lifted for maximum vision, but risky. My sword raised high, my antenna, I’m searching for a new (radio) station. I am free in the wind but armored. Ideas blaze and gleam like silver light and I’m off and running, full speed ahead, a Head, hanging on tightly to the reins, my toes pointed and curled around these stirrups. I am open wide; I am fastly furious. My horse flies too, attuned to my urgency. My horse is how I move–clouds jagged as my sword rips through the air–thunderhooved. But it’s the passion that drives me on, that spurs me–a bright red, bloodred silkribbon of vitality. A cloak thin and responsive as membranes.

Vincent Van Gogh and cypress trees. Mind as healer, mind as slayer. Choose? Birds circling, wheeling. Wheedling. Needling. I am crackled-up energy. I am speed of thought and razor-sharp articulation. I am commitment and my  mind in service to a grander plan than the day-to-day bandits of bread and sleep. Quicksilver, Mercury, Trickster, Gemini. Changing form midair, blurring boundaries. Clouds form and disperse, form and disperse. What moves through air is fleet-footed, light on its toes.

The realm of air welcomes me, yet I cling silkily to fire-ringed water. Air means flying. To fly is to gain perspective. Movement and flight and air so cold my brain crystallizes. Icicles and raindrops sizzle on my tongue.

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Discussion

One thought on “Knight of Swords

  1. Delicious movement, dancing laughing gallop of words. I could see it, feel it, taste the autumn crisp of this false spring in my nose, my belly, the balls of my feet. You are carmine, electric; tendrils of orchids weave baskets to decorate your crown. You are ancient lilac roots rising agian to bloom. You are genuine, beautiful, true to thy self. I admire your courage, your wit, and your wild horse of a language that calls to the black steed of my past to cast off its armor and reveal the true colors of its heart. You are the preistess who calls from the clifftop, breathing the deep voice of the conch. The waves that crash along the vast expanse of sand are indeed the lost unicorns. Found. Namaste.

    Posted by C.T.Ruth | April 8, 2010, 6:40 pm

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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