Elisabeth Writing

You tumbled through space and time, your rack of antlers ripped away by the greedy black hole you were swept into, stars grasping for light as you gasped for breath, death at your fingertips. Immortal ichor to mortal blood. Even the sound of your screams dissolved into nothing and everything. You landed in a concrete jungle. The graffiti, in a crimson scrawl, declared: ‘This is hell.’ You believed it. I did, too, when I first saw this place. Craggy faces, wrinkles lined with dirt and grime, defeated eyes begging for change; atomic bombs blasting, burning patterns into youthful skin, a cloud of smoky death and heat; forests and rivers devoured by trash and machines; toxic sunsets contoured with smog, oil slick highlights. Once, you were a fallen God; here, now, you are only a man.

I looked for you. Into slumbering glass coffins. Through thorny brambles guarded by angered dragons. Tiptoeing through galaxies, the stars hanging at my wrist and ears, peering into dark matter and interstellar gas – searching for a hint of you, a sign, a clue. I wept at the feet of Oracles and Mystics, only to be turned away. I found you only in dreams and visions. Where is your throne of oak and holly? Where is the proud stag? Why are you drowning in amber bottles? Why can’t I stop it?

Sometimes I’d find you there, in the ‘tween places. Your eyes honey gold, like the ex lovers of poems past, taking in every bruise and tattoo. Your callused hands tracing the peonies and roses, making them bloom with life, crowding every inch of my skin. I was your garden to cultivate. I can remember the husky growl of your voice in my ear as you commanded me to stay here, in this ether, this other, where wings unfurled across my shoulders, where your lips were soft against the skin above my aching, thundering heart. I tried to obey, to remain, but reality was tugging me back into the bed where I slept alone, shivering in the Wolf Moon’s light and winter cold. Sometimes I’d find little pieces of you, like a painting torn to bits and fed to the wind. Jaguar teeth in the hungry dark. Herne on the hunt. Wizard’s tawny irises, scraps of words the envy of Hemingway and Wilde, a toothy smile that burst into my chest like a hibiscus comet. Minstrel coins, fingers stroking guitar strings and my colt-like legs with equal patience, the soft hum of lyrics as I drift to sleep. Dimples that cut me to the quick, the taste of love and poison on my tongue, teeth at my throat, hands buried in golden locks. I’ve collected them, written them into being and memories, wept over them. And yet you’ve evaded me: horned one, fallen god, mythos lost. 

I hope the vines grow beneath your bare feet, breaking into the asphalt, flowers growing with unabashed adoration. I hope your storms bring relief, and release, cleansing rivers – and hands – of blood. I hope lightning crackles and cackles like thunder giants laughing above. I hope you show the world what it could be, what it once was. Until then… I’ll see you in my dreams again, Fallen.