The Book of Weston

In confusion, I sought you out,

in the deep where I knew I'd find you,

the dark forest stretching into the moonless

black, stars sprinkled around the rim,

the hum of animal noise, your servants,

vigilant, eyes shining in the void.

How could I have known

where you'd send me?

Trees sway, alive with the cool wind

as my fingers brush past pine needles

and branches part to reveal

your cave in the mountainside,

a cat's pupil in the stone.

I squeeze through into your darkness

closing around me. I float

in it thick and warm.

Where was your mercy?

How could my body remember

the pain you charge

to see you shining?

There's a distant red glow

I move toward,

secure in your gravity.

This is what I wanted,

what I couldn't find in any other.

Stone materializes around me,

water trickling down tunnel walls.

I round a corner and stop amidst

armies of stalagmites. Floating

in the dead center

and glowing like a ruby:

you, larger than life.

Your face breaks the dark.

Your piercing gaze draws me forward

like the idol of some ancient goddess,

familiar but alien, hair serpentine strands

hovering around your glowing head that

touches the roof of the giant cavern,

scarlet robe flowing to the floor.

This is what I needed, this intensity

piercing me like a thousand hungry arrows,

a thousand reasons not to die.

I collapse at the hem of your dress,

weighed down by your burning smile.

You tilt your head back, and your laughter

splits the cavern air, and I cover my ears,

shaking until you stop and open your mouth:

"Be not afraid. You've strayed too far.

I'm here to redirect you."

You close your eyes and the earth rumbles.

Stalactites crack and fall to the floor,

exploding into numberless fragments.

"Where are you sending me?" I yell

and reach to grab your dress,

but the ground gives way, and I plummet

into a pit that leads to my bed.

And some days I wonder

if this life is mine

or the one you chose for me.