Original Poetry Fan Fiction ❯ Song Of Myself ❯ Song Of Myself ( Chapter 1 )

Song of Myself, Part 1

I congratulate myself and worship myself. And what I shall say, you shall say; for every thought I should think, I think should belong to you as well.

 

I sit in wonder and suckle my soul; I, swing, sitting at rest, and soaking every second of light.

 

My spirit sucks up the sun, the ground, the earth, the second. I am here, I exist only here; God is here. What more kind of worship could my spirit ask? Deathless - each second delivers a killing stroke.

 

Divine work, cleared away by divine work, the slate painted-over. And still I sit, suckling, drawing-In, “Nature without check, with original energies”: Celestial Art!

 

Odors radiate from the earth, permeating the soles of my feet, entering my callous rubber; I inhale the small tendrils of gray of smoke, five smoldering stems send me.

 

It escapes, channeled through the watered-down atmosphere: the atmosphere that triggers the surreal nirvana, the requested flight to God.

 

These odors travel me up, casting in metal the moments of a required meeting of God within my mind, of the worship due to him down to the heart beatings. Maintaining the steady beat of visions of perceived ideas, the heart pounds, tied with tendons to the world around, aware now of its own worshipings

 

This slow pulsing crash of blood, careening around corners is a locomotive down a track, its a whistle blowing a steady hymn, a hymn, a hymn, a hymn, that reverberates, a ping-ponging around in my head, echoing of the celestial art. Escaping in an exhale. It Screams with an Elation that is freed into the noise, absorbed into the work of God, then screamed back

 

 

The Chameleon's Song, Part: 2

 

Chameleon skin stretched tight o'er the world,

A mirror-blend, of polished metal trapping the image in. It sits unseen, unused, observant.

 

Chameleon armor is chameleon chinked and flayed, a constant mirror of the life.

Twitching and dancing, twitching and dancing

 

I scream it from the hills, gurgle it from the ocean depths, The Chameleons Song, The Chameleon Sings.

 

Dark lush browns flow, tendrils from the core, under the arms. They beat back, never surpassing the navel, and always weighed down by gravity. The Chameleon's heart pulses and the brown responds. With the sprout of sternum brown fades, discolors and mingles with yolk yellow.

Chameleon skin ripples and the shiver drives the rich maroon shift from the sickened paleness that came before.

 

The maroon is alive with oxidized blood, burgundy wine blushes across as the song dies.

Its forked tongue slithers out, utteringa twisted note as it crouches. Yellow eyes whirl, tough muscled legs tense, and leap

 

The note expands and glows from hill to lake, it explodes: it spreads. Each atom reverberates singing its own; they disintegrate, spread their wings and fly. Push and shove, microcosms of themselves. They fall as endless mirrors.

 

Each wing unfolds, from the tiny droplets of primordial reflections; a burgundy solidifies and liquefies and maintains; matching the beat of the ceaseless down stroke

 

I have seen their cracked shells, their blacked scaly feet. The small newborn's down as they form natures original line, lead only by a singular mother. I have seen the mothers eye whirl with the glint of madness the threat of death issued by her spread plumage, her tough tense body, her subtle and tender neck

 

But most of all I have seen emotional euphoria. I have witnessed, The requested flight, through the atmosphere they travel. They wheel and dive, pushing and shoving. Gosling and goose, they transcended human emotion and become: Song of Themselves.

 

Escher alive! A daring swoop! a streamlined V, a steady cloud of disgruntled circlers. They honk and chatter, The flock a changing consistency. All aiming at a thinned patch of ice. All aiming at cold winter nights. All this fight for one lonely roost. The thought. It screams into my mind with locomotive power.

 

One ghastly inhale. The cold air explodes up my nostril. Down a pitful dive. It wheels in elation. Set loose in my lungs it shifts with glee. And is absorbed by burgundy blood. It transcends up, up up it soars to the brain. And there it blossoms as some radioactive flower. They sing a hymn. A Hymn they sing