The Herald of the Endless Ash
The ash sheds in warning –
moments of time torn
in revelation, ambers that
pierce the edges of memory,
awakening a fear that signals
the inevitable, the chill of consequence
spilling in the shadow of the
Heralds cloak, warning against
the pure incineration, a message
fragmenting from the robes of ash, splintering
hope into reflections of eternity.
The summons of change
smoulders against life,
rainfall of cinders burning
before the quickening eye;
ash falling everywhere – in the streets,
inside homes, in the deepest woods,
between quiet spaces; it slowly suffocates
all willingness to survive, leaving only regret,
enduring sadness, a kindness that
prepares the wound for a greater tragedy –
erosion of existence, deprivation of all
the elements of love.
Dark flakes mark the
unjust truth – igniting the remnants
of life, crumbling math/science/reason;
the herald stands before the moment,
ashen robes conceal foresight,
grey charred fingers direct extinction,
sparking all creativity into retaliation,
preparation before the final moment,
a stage of despair returning the dawn,
connections disintegrating into
black dust, removing the words
inspired for the chalice of graves.
The charcoal deliverance – burnt
oasis crumbling hope, discovery
becomes inevitable, an ash tapestry
before the herald’s hands, covering
all meaning, all emotions, all awareness;
celestial expression – offering a final wave
of absolute beauty, illuminating the
galaxy, destroying life that’s incapable
of understanding, never realising the
missed opportunity, unity with the
perfection of beauty, leaving only the coal
that smoulders in the aftermath of loss,
with the mournful promise that things will
never return.
THE END
By Christopher Collingwood ©
To See a Charcoal Forest
A charcoal adolescence,
finding graves in the forest,
a life in sentence, perception
consumed by the ash, a willingness
to draw from memory.
Prejudice ruins the eye,
veins etched
by stilted calligraphy;
drawing crowds
to a promise – the reservoir
of the world’s complexion.
Charcoal fingers give
movement – but the trees
rustle in a foreign land,
an apparition of shades,
the page offers a single tree,
the mind behind glass,
a forest in a jar of vinegar.
Temptation is to believe
each stroke is a fortune,
the eyes blur – and there
is no bird, no cricket, no wind,
the people are undressing.
Words realise the burial –
purpose capturing echoes,
an unworthy silhouette, wandering
the trees alone, calling from
the darkness, a voice seeking
depth, when you have
never seen the world.
THE END
By Christopher Collingwood ©
Chris was born and raised in Sydney Australia. He completed university in Sydney and graduated with a degree in business studies. Chris has devoted his spare time to writing, with works published in Not One of Us, Andromeda Spaceways, Hexagon, Shoreline of Infinity, Jersey Devil Press, Qualia Nous Vol 2 anthology, The Pink Hydra, and illustration in The Sprawl Mag 2.1, Apocalypse Confidential, , Sublimation 1.3, hyphen punk, Suburban Witchcraft, Snoozine, among other dimensionally unstable places.
The ash sheds in warning –
moments of time torn
in revelation, ambers that
pierce the edges of memory,
awakening a fear that signals
the inevitable, the chill of consequence
spilling in the shadow of the
Heralds cloak, warning against
the pure incineration, a message
fragmenting from the robes of ash, splintering
hope into reflections of eternity.
The summons of change
smoulders against life,
rainfall of cinders burning
before the quickening eye;
ash falling everywhere – in the streets,
inside homes, in the deepest woods,
between quiet spaces; it slowly suffocates
all willingness to survive, leaving only regret,
enduring sadness, a kindness that
prepares the wound for a greater tragedy –
erosion of existence, deprivation of all
the elements of love.
Dark flakes mark the
unjust truth – igniting the remnants
of life, crumbling math/science/reason;
the herald stands before the moment,
ashen robes conceal foresight,
grey charred fingers direct extinction,
sparking all creativity into retaliation,
preparation before the final moment,
a stage of despair returning the dawn,
connections disintegrating into
black dust, removing the words
inspired for the chalice of graves.
The charcoal deliverance – burnt
oasis crumbling hope, discovery
becomes inevitable, an ash tapestry
before the herald’s hands, covering
all meaning, all emotions, all awareness;
celestial expression – offering a final wave
of absolute beauty, illuminating the
galaxy, destroying life that’s incapable
of understanding, never realising the
missed opportunity, unity with the
perfection of beauty, leaving only the coal
that smoulders in the aftermath of loss,
with the mournful promise that things will
never return.
THE END
By Christopher Collingwood ©
To See a Charcoal Forest
A charcoal adolescence,
finding graves in the forest,
a life in sentence, perception
consumed by the ash, a willingness
to draw from memory.
Prejudice ruins the eye,
veins etched
by stilted calligraphy;
drawing crowds
to a promise – the reservoir
of the world’s complexion.
Charcoal fingers give
movement – but the trees
rustle in a foreign land,
an apparition of shades,
the page offers a single tree,
the mind behind glass,
a forest in a jar of vinegar.
Temptation is to believe
each stroke is a fortune,
the eyes blur – and there
is no bird, no cricket, no wind,
the people are undressing.
Words realise the burial –
purpose capturing echoes,
an unworthy silhouette, wandering
the trees alone, calling from
the darkness, a voice seeking
depth, when you have
never seen the world.
THE END
By Christopher Collingwood ©
Chris was born and raised in Sydney Australia. He completed university in Sydney and graduated with a degree in business studies. Chris has devoted his spare time to writing, with works published in Not One of Us, Andromeda Spaceways, Hexagon, Shoreline of Infinity, Jersey Devil Press, Qualia Nous Vol 2 anthology, The Pink Hydra, and illustration in The Sprawl Mag 2.1, Apocalypse Confidential, , Sublimation 1.3, hyphen punk, Suburban Witchcraft, Snoozine, among other dimensionally unstable places.
