Wordmachinist.com

Yes, I have done journalism, poetry, spoken word, voiceover work, short and long fiction and film scripts.

Ember

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As the paint bubbled from the eggshell walls I woke,

The fire, an inferno cracked and breathed,

Eating the sanctuary

The halls and stairwells,

And the candles still burned

Slumping like late winter snowmen.

I could imagine the flames, dancing in my eyes

Rolling across the ceiling, dripping

Rain of fire.

No need for blankets,

Naked, the embers leaving tiny brands

On my less than innocent skin

Blazing bats, swirling, their wings

The pages of my requiems and prosody.

Slowly rising to sit, feet on shimmering stone

Drink from a steaming carafe

The finch ablaze, a lesser phoenix

Shrugging in to winter clothes, there must be snow

For there to be such hissing

Great coat and broad hat, slow progress

Down the throat of the orange stair

Through the storm of ash moths swarming

In the library.

Catches, locks, bolts and bars

Thrown with more than a touch

Of regret.

Where will I go, with winter roaring

And the mountain ablaze?

Where can the Nephilim rest

When the world is afire?

Copyright 2008 Cutter Murdoch

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