This poem was a draw-off; I wrote it on the first day of my British Lit class when my professor asked for a writing sample from the class (I'd had her before and she knows my writing, so I figured I'd do something creative with the time rather than do the standard blah blah blah). It's loosely based on a recurring dream I've been having ... actually, it's sort of halfway between a dream and an apocalyptic night terror. There's nothing overtly frightening in the dream, other than the bones strewn about and the Golgoth-like quality of the setting, but something about the obelisk stretching up and away into an infinity of sky scares the hell out of me. I wake up from this dream, when I have it, in a cold sweat.
The obelisk is facing to the west;
For three nights it has called to me
In dreams. Smooth obsidian,
Black and cold, beckons—
And promises a test.
The earth that sheltered it
Now tossed aside, the broken loam
A testimony. The rich soil sifts
Through these searching fingers.
Look to the sky;
For there is no summit, only a
Sable beam, bridging the gap
Between the surface of this world
And the cerulean. All the rest
To come this far lay scattered.
The carvings on the windward face
Are humming incantations—I do not
Comprehend their arcane song.
So, for me, there is only refuge
In the shadows of the leeward side.