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Petra Whiteley


Rising Hope

I lay my face down
where eyes never fall,
inside the sharp elbow
of the Green man's creek
clutching on soiled reeds,
covered in nightmares.

I can't stop;
I swallow and define
the minutes rise and fall,
by the shadows
the sun throws on grass
and hide,
for the Priest of thorns
is coming to collect the tithe
of pain and doubts.

The rhythm of the horse hooves;
an elegant march of fears
revealed in the slivered light
of shaking trees
and the beat of following wings:
a sky covered in the hunger
of deathly birds.

I slip into the river
holding fast
the carnelian snowflakes
you left behind in footprints
to seek the look of your eyes
in the ruins
of rising hope.

Where the bluebells
shelter the fallen
I come back to free
my gypsy heart.
And here, you and I,
dance to the thunder
And lightning held
in the creases of your palms.


Why did you hit the ground three times?

I hold your breath tucked inside my palms
as freezing, silent nights loyally guard
their diamond whispers with black moon.

Why did you leave in disguise of morning clouds?

I've seen you standing in the eye of the furious winds
hair flowing; hands strong;
holding on to the haunting spectre of time.

Why does the cello stop in a third of forgotten concertos?

Your movements; elegant and mesmerising:
the poisoned waves of wrathful ocean
keeping our history of love under brooding tides.

Why is the broken sky crying?

Moonlight is troubling my memory.
I scratch at walls of smokey air
screaming the secret name of your soul.

Why are the fires absorbing hopes?

Hearts fragile, so impossible to break
as it's always been....this look of tragedy
in a ceaseless sound of migrating wings.

Why are mute angels seeking the cradle of passion?

I thought I'd loose you when darkness fell
you've changed it all for me, and I,
resolved, touch the dawn of abandonment.

Why is the devil living inside deep red blood?

If I could, I would bring the azure blankets
of soothing tomorrows, instead of searching
inside these empty Celtic vases of fallen roses.

Why is the silence reaching the path of wilderness?

This fluorescence inside your words of forgiveness...
the light that stays in the midst of these fields of filth
I clutch inside, my fists bleeding against the savage storms.

Why have we forgotten how to dance flamenco?

These longing woods, I've embraced for more than thousand days,
whisper the contents of my heart to waiting soil
for French daffodils of immortal love.

Why is my heart spinning in singing heart beats?

Is this what would be if we'd truly seen the encrypted rocks;
before we forgot the shivers running down our spines
resonating with the rapid fall from Universe to forsaken Earth?


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