There is no "red spot" quite comparable to a drop of blood, no "paint" so telling as a bloodstain, whether it be on Gessoed canvas, linen, or bleached cotton. I can't explain all that brought me back to the following poem...I have been obsessing a bit about Orion's movement across the winter sky, the prompt has elements within it that may be interpreted as somehow connected, but, yeah, there's more to it than that. In any event, the first draft of this was written over twenty years ago about events that occurred a dozen years prior to that, so please don't think I'm about to engage in any sort of blood-letting. I'm just...haunted.
Hunted: A Poem from The Nadir
By Lemuel Crouse
cold and penetrating--
an icy arrow shot by him
who hunts the frozen winter sky.
Cold, too, are faces
that seem to look intently
but do not see within the silent man
the whimpering child.
Today I am hunted--
haunted, some would say--
but they have not seen the smiling terror
which stalks my dreams.
The sun is cold today--
cold and glowing--
an endless bright night
devoid of blessed, concealing darkness.
Cold, too, are lungs
that burn but still
are not consumed by flames
from the longed-for final fire.
avoiding, some would say--
but they have not been served
a draught from the well of hell.
The sun is cold today--
cold and unredemptive--
a puppet knight crucified on the clouds,
unable to save himself, let alone me.
Cold, too, are words
which sound the hollow knell of faith
and smell of bitter ashes
blown down from hope’s cremation.
Today I am alone--
selfish, some would say--
but they have not felt this searing sting,
this thrust from a trusted sword.
(Additional images: stock photo of the Orion constellation; my pic of winter sun setting)
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