The Eternity Syndrome


*Image found HERE

The Eternity Syndrome

it would not pen
the cry of no millennia
into the thousand year old bourbon
of it’s blood;
the equinox vertebrae,
the cut-out bruto,
the white.
You would not be it’s exo –
the sky-scrapers hum,
friction is a basement band
and bones
do not dream.
The skeletal figure, unclothed.
It would not scour woods
for feathers
of the nightingale to prick,
no amulets,
no indigo offspring,
no rattling of the cages
in the twilight hour –
the path from flex to linen
his most mysterious concern.
We metamorphose to hummel,
but he would not despair.
Soft is the lilac
and the river is angry,
the ground is
No, he would not coax you into wings.
He would sit atop a chair,
his marrow leaking,
teaching Winter to the young tree,
his abysmal sockets
envying the futile void
locked in battle with the stars –
the metastasizing cancer of the sky;
and would proclaim:
“What pity for the flesh!”


~ by Oloriel on July 13, 2015.

22 Responses to “The Eternity Syndrome”

  1. That was the single best piece of poetry I’ve ever read here. I can’t say any better than that. πŸ™‚

  2. Content well-done and I love the literary terms. Your poem reveals that you know them well.

    • Thank you very much for taking time to read my poem and leave me a word of your own, and also for sharing it, I really appriciate it πŸ™‚

  3. Great.

  4. This is very good and I need to read it again a few times, so many layers!

  5. Sometimes when I read you, I can see you in the forest to an inner city, other times a forest of the hills amongst mountains. Sometimes your lines inhale death, other times they breathe life, even in the winters to souls above fresh and days old snow. I love the ways you slow the heart, the pulse in these moments of cold in the stories between clear and tainted skies.

    • Thank you, Sean. I think the sentiment colors almost every one of my poems, because my entire life I have lived in the suburbs, where the scenery is just as you described it. I am also very much enamoured in my city and surroundings, hence why I never hesitate to make it the melody of my poetry πŸ™‚
      Thank you very much for reading!

  6. what a gorgeous piece!! it calls out from the fragments of our dreams.

  7. That photo! I so love it. It’s strange that I should see it today. I have been writing a story with smoky weird crazy things coming out of the skeleton. Thanks for posting it

    • “He would sit atop a chair,
      his marrow leaking,
      teaching Winter to the young tree,
      his abysmal sockets
      envying the futile void
      locked in battle with the stars – ”

      “his marrow leaking . . .teaching Winter to the young tree . . . abysmal sockets envying the futile void . . ”

      My favourite part.

      • Thank you, Peter, I am glad you like that finisher, because it is my favourite part of the poem too πŸ™‚

    • Peter, please do leave me a link to it, I would love to read it and tell you my thoughts! I am having some rush days at the moment, so cannot be on blog that much, but I would really love to read your story!

  8. no flesh will be left,
    bones will turn to dust,
    just words

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