Poetry by Christopher Hivner

The Asp of Ra

Sand dunes stretch out before me,
waves of a dry, ancient ocean.
I am naked to the cruel sun
asking mercy, on my knees,
sinking into a breast of fine white powder,
a beggar to my demise.
Air so hot,
the breath of the gods
from the mountains a continent away.
They burden my fragile spirit
so, I fall,
under the asp of Ra,
stings of white-hot grains of sand
welt my body as I sink
under the dunes, beneath the waves
of the ancient ocean.

The Worms

White Light
broken night
fresh graves
from bloodied hands
one for sorrow
only sorrow

White light
faces revealed
timeıs arrow
buried in peat,
away from
the ascension

White light
broken night
hidden in
the forest
of sacred
cast shadows

White light
two hands
from the dark
covered in
turned soil
and madness (the worms)
White light
from another world
breaks the silence
illumines hell
and for one moment
we are in
the spotlight

The Damascus Call

I hold the knife steadily in my hand.
The teeth of the serration press to my thumb
gently pressuring the flesh.
The edge of the triangular blade
glints in the glow of my desk lamp.
The voice begs so,
pleading for use
as it rots from
the inside out.
The very tip of the blade eases against
the calluses of my middle finger,
pushing just far enough
for the synapses in my brain to fire a warning.
I glide my finger over the steel.
Thirsty, so thirsty,
dying slowly,
last breaths
brushing the hairs of my beard.
Before I can argue, the knife is in my belly
turning in a circle through flesh and organ
grinding and ripping a perfect hole
for blood to flow in a red-black torrent.
The voice is singing,
its life fulfilled
drenched in the musk of fear
and the release of the bowels.
I canıt hear the knife anymore.
The song has ended in serene satisfaction.
I slump in my chair to a chorus of other voices,
the swords on my walls
searching for their destinies.

Down There

Down there,
through the fog
and the trees.
Thatıs where it came from.
You can still hear screams.
Down there,
thatıs where it dragged a body
over the hill,
where the moon doesnıt shine.
Thereıs a trail to follow.
The screams still echo
from down there.
I can smell freshly turned dirt,
copper coats my tongue.
I am only dimly aware of my voice wailing
as the beast emerges,
talons from the mist
that pull me down
to waiting fires
and I finally realize
the screams were always mine.

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