A Place Of Myth

It was said that the ice formed crystalline pathways underground,

Where no horizon rolls by or finds the subtle arched sky of faded root.

Midnight is not there, and remembering the way is how it's found,

Dream easy, airy tides of droplet stir, inscribed of wings, of wild fruit.

It's all so real, but not as it seems, not as a book of papaya bound.

How was it said that deep below the outer shell was bitter cold?

A deserted plane on the fringes of lore laid out above hollow ground.

Once upon a time it was easy to know, but now how was it told?

And from where from all the world wishes fell, granted back around?

Like some magic has kept its secret, hiding it in clouds and cubic fold.

 

Faraway an oracle is burning the threshold that holds a glimmer.

A place of endless dreamlike waves under aurora's canopy.

Raging fire and silver chords over lighted peaks in sun's shimmer.

Outside the limits of this bluish glare is often where I will be.

Transparent waters reflecting each depth and hosting reflected glitter.

 

Where you found the fountains of life, your name was kept.

When the clock mocks that waiting is in vain, yet no pages say.

Sustained storms crept along in calm outer orbs as you slept.

Paused minute and likewise moments never enter or do they sway.

Ages very slow must have been written somewhere before they left.

 

The buildup of time against only timely patterns of ascendance.

Floating in air cities of a story, it hides from a half of night, that is day.

And long ago its name was the forested earth and moon's dependence.

The paths of gold and the roads of stone aglow, upon each byway.

Beyond our small corner we dreamed and there we were in attendance.

 

Illustrations can only frame its boundless depth, the skirting star.

A land of myth for the written tale, come and pass by, you must set out.

Any signs may tell in carved monoliths to find a way by far.

Such a place exists somewhere from where this place sets the route.

Go to ends, other sides, back to origins of a thousand year memoir.

I say now it's true without a doubt, connect the feeling, it's all too real.

Timelessness and cloud easily flow from some hidden, abundant source.

View those mythical lands, those hills of stilled sands and moving wheel.

Recalled from echoes of the words invoked and spoken of a set course.

The memory is the same, and many have walked through with zeal.

And the place has many a key that we can unlock doors to dreams.

And if the most peaceful place you've seen, there's more still.

Was it always said that this place is set, but not at all as it seems?

Crystal fire for the top of crystal skies, adrift in signal waves until.

Sure as the light of distant moons would spill out in longer beams.

It was once said open gates are everywhere, hidden from eyes far away.

As if wavering under the rolling oceans, and layers of Saturn lost to view.

Though the spell cannot be described it pulls from a thousand year stay.

It's said to be a place of myth, however none claim it, only break through.

It must be living still and maybe always will from now until, past the gray.

 

Woven and unbreakable the myth, the mirth, the mystery beyond bone yards.

Melting the winter, and stirring frost 'tween summer and the blaze of sol.

Sleep lightly by sides of darkness, dream heavy in the timing that time regards.

Sleep heavy outside hours dark, for harmony, reason and rhyme, from the cold.

Always walk through knowing all between sunset and sunrise, and their guards.

 

For behind a secret forest and beyond a stunning horizon you may be unknown.

No rustle in the leaves, no dusty manuscript to be read, dare the restless breeze.

Listen to the stillness, it was a mythical realm that legend had made full-blown.

Memory of such matters as ancient names, thinking beneath the shadow trees.

The silence there gave every clue that you stood in the shrine and was shown.

 

Long arches bore into silver sands upon moon's face, and its face turned away.

By a rift from long time before last many years ago, hearing the winds of woe.

Not knowing the place of who may tell of who may have gone, dims in the fray.

Then everything seems new again, not knowing how, over a white gauzy glow.

Magical realms through a shore of crashing waves past the alignment of day.

Stars still seen where their beams cannot be traced through set pillars now.

Pillars crumbled after the ages raced to places of lost script chiseled in stone.

One can turn away, gaze back to the new again though we don't know how.

One cannot tell where ages have gone, flown to all shattered times and bone.

And sails of a boat bound to steady wave with anchors of light and pearl bow.

 

Awakened, risen from the darkest entwined brace of sleepy corners then.

There's still life, there's still breath and the sense of chaos has lapsed.

In waves again, of sound and movement in twine hanging over forest den.

Beckoned back from what seemed unreal, the realization it wasn't collapsed.

And the number only base, the measure of what's beyond the counting of ten.

Stand fast in the soft sunlight slipping through the pink-white clouds.

Follow the beam again and fear not, it does not go away and always keep.

It will settle upon languid beaches with echoes and closer quiet sounds.

Memory reborn and unbroken, knowing it wasn't in danger of deathly sleep.

And where we're bound, within the capacity of expanding bounds.

 

The geometry of gilded vines of golden lines even under a sea of blue.

Any remainder of hidden temples from roots to levels of even mountain range,

From underground of direct path and surrounded by every sign, that it's true.

The sails collapse in distant doors of water's flow, of mists and shifting change.

So you must glide like light and wind, go out and flow, and you make it through.

 

The myth was spoken but its location a web of silver waters that murmur and sigh.

Heavy pours must have since drowned the dark and rains splashed barren floor.

Upon the glistened abstract of shallow pond in fortress pass, in the clarity of eye,

When droplets fell from reflected sky, rapidly breaking the mass, like repeated lore.

You'll come back, you'll tread the lofty score, retelling past the myth intact as a guide.

The beyond is known, somber tales of dreaded pathways from this life of long.

The belief of such belied testament of dark cocoon in grave's deep side.

It was in the water, past tides beginning to ending truly of who sang the song.

There they continue, never to cease, in the sway of storm, in the roll of tide.

Myth may call upon them all, never to see it cease, and never going wrong.

And streams of light, strings aglow, look about it all, crystalline pathways deep.

Where the myth of strange realms and waters on high at gray gates may fall.

Forever now you shall know, if in darkness you sense the willow weep,

Does it speak, does it know? Will it awaken the memory of pillar and wall?

A place of myth is the secret of many truths that you know you keep.

 

 

©Iggy 1998