Poem: The Pharaoh and The Moth

moth

My dear, you do not have to

Go unheard – let me be the receptacle

For your every word – may my ear be the

Cradle in which your wind’s heartbeat

Can rinse out its melodies,

Graceful and neat

 *

The wind is a vicarious mistress; when

Her tongue is restless she must search, strive,

Dip, and dive, to find a graceful medium,

In which to rhapsodize

*

You do not need to disguise your

Feelings of voicelessness – your words

Hid in a gloaming of unknowing –

Your genius mustn’t be immured in a

Wall-less throat – clash your heart on

Every cliff and coastline, until the whole

World resounds with your soul’s

Repine.

*

II.

If you still need a medium against

Which to crash, I’ll be the cliff-face

Your howling gales can thrash – like

The cosmogonic giant who commit suicide,

So within his corpse a universe could reside

– May my friendship be part

Of the sacred landscape in which

Your blooming creativity can fully

Escape

 *

My bones become rocks; my life’s

Blood turns ocean; my hair a tapestry

Of willow leaves, through which

Your voiceless suffering can e’er be relieved,

And unlock the bonds of its paralyzed

Motion

*

With this topography of transliteration

For your choir – sing out your song for

This concert-hall cosmos – till the stars

Are a-thrum with the notes of your

Lyre.

*

III.

You joked that with you

I am obsessed; but it is only

Because I feel so blessed, to have

Met someone I consider utterly

My equal, that I can be, at times,

Over-intense

*

Mine has been a lonely

Existence; but I try not to live in

Negligence – if my suffering can

Be condensed into observable fractals

Of wisdom, then I pray that my pain I

Will always relive, so I will always have

More and more wisdom to give

*

That is my dream – my abiding

Fantasy – to be a great guru – a guide

For the galaxy – a Buddha whose heart

Can be a Halfway Home, in which the

Stray souls of heaven stash their relics

And bones

 *

So, when, wide-eyed,

Your precocious talents,

I first espied, I thought:

“Perhaps this little moth

Might like a guide? Someone

To open the window’s wide,

Where with new worlds she

Can soon collide?”

 *

But no! – You need no escort

Through the channels of time –

When already, my wisdom, you

So easily outshine! Me – a teacher

To you?! More like you

A teacher to me!

Or just poet to poet?

Visionary to

Visionary?

*

IV.

But, isn’t it profound,

How our Second Worlds

Do eachother confound?

As Ambassadress of the Wind,

It is the hollows of the earth you

Take as your safe place to sing;

Carving elaborate

Catacombs – (your imagination’s

Tenebrous sitting room!) –Whilst I,

A tectonic titan of earth, oppressed

By the weight of my chthonian birth,

Cry out for the wind, for the sky, for

Space! The canvas on which my

Imagination’s engravings are

Traced.

 *

V.

I have memories of being

An intergalactic king; but

Now I am a wretched, land-

Locked thing. I long

For the ocean, as I long

To see, the eyes of a soul

That truly knows me.

*

VI.

That was to be the original

Framework of this poem –

An epic narrative of

Pharonic ruler – governor of an

Intergalactic Empire – who discovers that

The tranquillity of his land is just a

Facade – wounded and scarred

To learn of the feudatory tyrants,

Who have turned outer moons into

Planets of Punishment; where Europa,

Concentration camp converted, subjects its

Prisoners to practises perverted, intending to

Euthanize and disgrace, the nobility of

A nomadic race, who once sang of infinity’s

Byways, better than earthly poets of

Bygone days

 *

On hearing of these atrocities

He so much deplored – this blue-

Skinned sovereign now withdrawed,

To meditate a plan of action that would

Help, to return liberty to the sad souls of

His realm; but when returned to the helm

Of his kingdom after astral cogitations,

He saw only scenes of devastation – it seems

He had completely overshot the mark; for

Thousands and thousands of aeons had

Passed – and that merry realm he had

Once loved so much, was now but a ruin –

A skin without touch

*

Aggrieved and obsessed,

He searched every scrub and

Eggless nest, trying to find

A single subject, or soul,

He might hold-fast as his

Very own

*

But all life was gone – Not a

Soul – not one! – dust

Was the only sovereign in this

Imperial hell – his spiral galaxy –

A mere snail shell! – Whose

Unhappy occupant had long since

Left, from its swirled palace

Eternally bereft . . .

 *

He searched every planet,

Every matchless quarter,

Hoping to find a single beast

Or creature saved from

Slaughter – birds no longer

Swooped skies in spasms,

Or carved it into melodic, timeless,

Chasms – no more the swish

Of a dragon’s tail, or the aching croon

Of a dying space whale – just more

Moons and planets, lifeless and breathless –

Sad haunts for a king doomed to be

Deathless

*

VII.

The Pharaoh sat by a

Waterfall – a waterfall

That sailed off the edge of

The world, plunging into a

Glowering abyss, no god

Or man had ever plumbed

 *

And as he sat there, he was

Overcome by empathy for the

Waterfall – he felt the glory of

What it is to fall – to

Search forever for some

Tender ground, you know,

You fear, might never be

Found

 *

VIII.

While sitting there in that

Roaring blue, his body getting

Colder and colder, and paler in hue – a little moth

Alighted on his shoulder, flaunting

Wings of blackest crimson and

Gold – shimmering warmest where

He was most cold

*

At first he was so numb he

Did not notice; but his guiding

Sprite invited him to ope his eyes,

To regard this fragile sign of life

That was enthroned on his

Thoracic girdle

*

But there was still yet another

Hurdle – for the Pharaoh was so

Hypothermic and cold, he could not

Stop seizing and shaking, and feared

That his quaking would scare away

The Moth, soon blighted in the

Cataract’s fumes of froth

 *

Thus he sang:

 *

“Oh, little moth, though I shake!

Do not my lonely hopes unmake!

I crave, I cry, I seek a friend, with

Whom I can converse without end,

Perhaps this broken heart to mend?”

 *

IX.

And the moth did not flee

From his shoulder, though his

Fears grew ever bolder, and

Assailed him with the conjectured

Strife, of having to live a mothless

Life. For he knew that moths, like

All things, must die, and he feared

Ever having to say goodbye to

This last little sweet atom of life,

In this sea of atomless death

 *

X.

But he needn’t have suffered

Hyperventilated breath – the

Moth did not flee, nor did she

Die; though many seams of

Years did pass, the Pharaoh

Drawing closer to his sepulchral

Gasp

 *

He would talk to the moth,

And she to him, fanning

Messages of poetry with her

Semaphore wings

*

And though the moth did not

Age, the Pharaoh ‘gan to wizen;

With the palsied robe of death

He was achingly bedizened

 *

He cried out:

“Oh, moth, how can I leave you

So little? Now, my breath is

Faltering and my bones are

Brittle – my joints disentangle –

My thoughts disintegrate – and

No serpent crown esteems my

Pate? How can I leave you,

Alone, and friendless, when the years

Stretch on, unkindled, and endless?

I fear I have wasted your life with my

Words, when you should have

Flown freer with much wiser

Birds!”

 *

XI.

The Pharaoh’s swansong

‘Gan to lose its power; and

The Moth, knowing she had but

An hour – though you may find it

Hard to imagine – swole up her wings

To the size of a dragon’s! – And flew

Him to an autumnal moon,

Asteroid-belt nooked – the only

Place our dying sovereign had not yet

Looked

*

The Moth beat him with the air

Of her wings, so she could reveal

Her true form: a green-skinned

Queen Moth with great beauty

Adorned, and haloed with the

Majesty of Saturn’s rings

*

The palsied Pharaoh was too

Weak to speak; so, she uplifted

His head, and caressed his cheek,

And directed his gaze to a glorious

Sight – for ‘gainst the canvas of that

Star-strewn night – he saw moth-men

And women everywhere – bioluminescent,

Happy and fair – and contented that life’s

Continuance was secured, he left his

Body without a word. Made one with

Space, no longer alone – he returned his

Spirit to that ineffable home

*

XII.

And I do believe, one day, we’ll

Return, to a realm where dreams

Are not to be spurned – to a place where

Imagination is sovereign – where

Thought and Fancy reign Queen and King

– The tantalizing drama of

Reality’s expanse – the medium in

Which we love, sing, and dance . . .

*

XIII.

I hope you’ll forgive me for writing

This ridiculous epic, with its childish

Verses and meters eclectic – but wither

My muse leads me, I must follow,

Whether beauteous heaven, or abysmal

Hollow – please take is at a

Token, an esteem of our friendship –

(And, I hope, after reading, you will

Not wish to end it!) – I am just a young

Fool – a writer of songs – who, in his

Compassionate heart only longs, to

Give you the help and understanding I’ve so

Oft’ been denied, in this, life’s rollicking,

Heart-wrenching ride

*

So, humour me, if I always want

To converse, to you on the mysteries

Of the universe – but I know a few tricks –

A few magic spells – that can make radiant

Heavens of e’en the darkest of hells

 *

And so, with compassion, affection,

And love, I have striven to summarize

All I’ve written above – and though I

Know our conversations must one day

End – I pray you’ll always count me

Your Devoted Friend

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