Unspoken History
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Unspoken History
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Impersistent figures crowd the periphery of my visual sphere. Impossible columns are cradled by the invisible, half-whispered void. I have made a home for myself among the crags and the vibrant changes of each unstable hour. Light streams in from some unreal source of radiation as I crouch and observe. Rocky trails up to the tenuous peaks turn from solid to untraversable as I watch, vanishing soundlessly to whence they obstensibly came.
A deep silence pervades the coarse shrubbery, and even the wind seems to be tiptoeing as to avoid awakening something.
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What is it that slumbers
in this impersistent place?
Below the surface of the stones,
'Neath the rocky face—
What impassive giant waits?
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To say the landscape is devoid of all signs of life would be a blasphemy of the highest degree. Whatever civilization was spawned, grew to maturity, and disappeared here has left me messages on every pebble. Even the trees seem to stretch out their arms saying, "Come, welcome to our planet. Partake of the abundance of our home. Let us tell you some tales of the history of this place."
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came a mirror, called night
to absorb, seemingly—
it restores, feelingly
our unspoken history.
words by d-pend
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images generated
using artbreeder
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created for HIVE
on June 22, 2020.
