At the most there were things with red eyes.
They dance around the columns in the red dark so you all you catch is red half-glimpses of what might be.
All I can be sure of is there were little ones and old ones with sunken cheeks and hollow sockets. They smile like lunatics. Laugh like them too.
They weave themselves into fury like smoke and like smoke they die and fall.
They whisper things half-heard and feel and sing and cry like bees.
Do bees cry?
Do you believe in tigers?
Tigers larger than large, with knowing eyes and stripes all the colors you know and don't know?
Out of the water ground in a leap and a bound it came: like a queen of ghosts or a king of gods or the unsung hero of some forgotten land under the deep of the mountain.
Tigerspeak is perhaps all the stories of the dark things in shadows you were told to beware when you were a child but secretly wanted to know about.
Wild and completely proud and unheeding except for these that come in dreams.
I sat long and they told me stories: the rainbow with the eyes and the smoke that laughed.
No comments:
Post a Comment