I walk the scalèd ridge
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writing and photomanipulations. . . . . by
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Thunder comes in the night,
speaking the tongue of Titans:
lamenting the birth of light
into the warm, dun expanse.
I walk the scalèd ridge
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The leafshade-dappled monster of the world
Bends under my boot — right o'er the ridge
Is its tar-gloam apparel new-unrolled:
A shelter to entomb the wild sedge.
Patchwork scales metallic, mineral,
Organic, laced with trails of chemicals
Buckle under pressure of the force
Of time and whirling globe-gravitic glove
That flattens form — reduces from above,
And smooths the edgy contours of scales;
Yet tames the dragon not — again she rails
Against bipedal plunderers of hoards
Upstored from the beginning — ancient gourds
Collect and store the drip primordial.
In jungles long-encroached, in crumbling shrine
At world-navel, where subterranean
Descends a treasure tunnel marked with glyphs,
An otherworldly sun is known to shine.
Unfiltered by the bright cerulean
Of sky — undaunted by precip'tous cliffs,
The martial ray of sanguinary hue
Penetrates, aligning sigil-wise
With relic on the archway of the gate
That leads low out of sun-encumbered blue
Into the cemetery for old skies
Of early days. Has it become so late —
That she, leaf-dappled dragon called the world
But slumbers, waiting for a calmer age
To lick her wounds, to buckle tar unfurled
With grace, with stunning power and with rage:
Surpassing wrath, to throw the insects off
That scrawl obscenities on oaken page?
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Original photomanipulations and poetry
— by Daniel Pendergraft —
created for HIVE on May 23, 2020.
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