Scorched Tones


Where solid ground joins the night,

it shares in the solitude

to complete the passage of light.

The full moon was looming

to translate the darkness

into something immutable.

Tracks and terrain,

the lightning framed by trees,

bright flares on the road to nowhere.

A charred skin,

the strange shapes that were foreign,

are floating to find the ocean bottom.


The places you once were,

seen from above sacred remnants left there.

Scorched tones over all the miles it would clear,

lifted from predictable confines.

A timbre to allign you with something larger,

poised to witness

the first light on the dark outlines,

the shadow of a crater

the expectant shoreline.

From the deep, an utterance

A breath that broke the wave with foam

The OM that shook the universe

<The forming

The warming of molten lava

driving the ages out of forgetting.

The momentum meets you like an idea,

like thoughts beyond the last inlet

that hit the rocks before disappearing.


Following sounds down to the edge of pages.

Translucent white oceans

bright and turning over

the foam-shimmered stars piercing

the sea flowing ink from the well.

Resuming its journey,

like wayward lovers

who meet in eternity.

Overlapping in colors

disguised as one merging

memory of a setting sun.

Taste the salt on your tongue.

So close and yet you have not begun

to touch the wind and feel the flow

of feathers falling like embers from the unseen

enveloping wings

that will not disclose or decipher the meaning,

for nature is both separation and cohesion.


The moth realizes it’s drowning

in the wax of indecision.

Is this what it means to be safe?

To frantically flutter

until surrendering to exhaustion?

To whatever it is you write

in the blind light of the flame

that sees you through the night?

You are led through narrow passages.

In ancient quarters and in darkened corners,

there’s a seductive presence.

Features are revealed in a moment’s matchlight,

smoke lingering in neon effervescence.

What is left besides cigarette ends

in the evening arabesque?

The isolated design of these markings,

words at the end of an invitation

crossroad within a chapter abandoned.

How long can a spark linger?

A wallowing flicker

to follow footsteps into ash?

The story of fire spread over land,

kindling the torches

passed from hand to hand.

The wind whispers softly past

the ragged shapes in the swirling sand.

Born of freedom

Born of vagrancy

Born into customary migrations

of colorful veils

giving birth to dances

of moonlight on barren lava fields.

Once this time has lapsed into the creation of new land

you’ll find these tracks molded into the black

are the only impressions that last
of a flow that both holds and alters everything.


2 thoughts on “Scorched Tones

  1. nicktakis2012 says:

    sparks can linger a lifetime if the impression left is meaningful and
    noted..that is where you are pulling your writing from, is it not? that flow of fire gave birth to this song you wrote.

  2. domtakis says:

    yes Indeed, good observation!

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