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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477049" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Yes, The Awful Thresholds</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, the awful thresholds. <br>The taboos of lace and razorwire<br>that threshed our blood like kings of the waxing year, <br>queens that were crowned like the full moon in broken windows. <br>And you, dark one, hidden familiar, switchblade, <br>last crescent of my torment when all else had failed, <br>bloodsister of the same wound I've been dying of ever since <br>as if this life were the greatest affliction <br>that could have been visited upon either one of us <br>by the closed doors that drove us away <br>like scapegoats and pariahs, the untouchables<br>of an infernal caste of homeless innocents.<br>How could I ever forgive the boundary stones of their skulls <br>for what they did to you with their false prophecies<br>and promised lands, the hatred of your savagery <br>when you were mauled by the snakepits <br>incarnated in the hands and the glands of the toxic fathers <br>who brought their drunkenness like garbage barges<br>to the bed of a terrified girl to waste her <br>as they had themselves as if you'd been born to be trashed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The deepest outrages and sorrows in life <br>have had their tongues cut out, and over the course<br>of many demented stars, the light evaporates from their eyes <br>like the last grey thread of smoke from a candle <br>dipped in flesh, and the soul, no longer a spinal cord <br>of serpent fire burning like a fuse toward <br>some apocalyptic illumination that would right <br>the errors of perception in the awareness of heaven <br>that washed you and I like motes and cinders, <br>the crumbs of dreams clinging to the end of an eyelash<br>out of its field of vision as if we were never meant to be seen. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O my lover, my salve, my muse and anti-self, <br>my heart still burns in the cold out here alone <br>in these broken starfields under these shattered chandeliers <br>lucid as ice-storms in the abandoned ballrooms<br>of the scarecrows that once used to dance here <br>until they broke into flames like strawdogs <br>at an outlawed ghost dance that promised to return <br>all those things to us that we had irrevocably lost.<br>Where have you gone? Is it warm, there? <br>Do they leave you alone to nurse your heart <br>back into feeling something remotely human again? <br>Even at this late date, your gesture of silence <br>still humbles my voice like a night bird <br>I haven't heard before, as you ask for nothing <br>in the darkness, knowing as I know, <br>it would only make you more vulnerable to joy<br>and joy's an arrow fletched with our own flight feathers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And though, even now, wherever you are, <br>it would probably make you wince like a black rose <br>waiting for a pearl of blood to appear <br>where you pierced your eyelid on a thorn of the moon <br>in lieu of a tear you couldn't show to anyone but me<br>without them breaking it like a mirror they didn't want to see, <br>I have to say it, because you have to know, <br>though we've grown old apart, and I don't even know<br>if we're still the same astronomical catastrophe of fireflies <br>trying to keep each other warm in the immensity of the solitude <br>we once huddled in like a cold furnace of the heart, <br>waiting for a new world, anyone but this, <br>like a new universe to hatch out of a cosmic urn <br>though we both knew matchbooks don't just <br>suddenly flare into fire-breathing dragons <br>out of the ashes of creatures like us<br>who could not forgive our childhoods <br>for abandoning us to the ferocity of their absence. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have to say it, as if I were threshing arrows <br>like stalks of wheat in Virgo, what<br>an unlikely blessing of a sphinx you were <br>among so many obvious curses in utero. <br>And you must know, though I say it in broken glass <br>that never learned to cry, that I really did love you <br>even if I never said it at the time for fear you'd mistake me <br>for the others who did to excuse what they took from you<br>and never returned. Thousands of miles away <br>and more light years than the journey could keep up with, <br>in this open field, leftover for the birds and the worms <br>and the homeless weeds that are turning it into a refugee camp, <br>I stand like a hypocrite under a harvest moon in silence <br>and think of all the empty silos I've tried to be grateful for <br>as if I'd broken bread with them in order to learn <br>how to live on less than nothing but this vengeance <br>that still burns inside of me like the vow of a vacuum<br>that has yet to be fulfilled whether nature abhors it or not.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477049" data-title="Yes, The Awful Thresholds de Patrick White" data-description="Yes, the awful thresholds. 
The taboos of lace and razorwire
that threshed our blood like kings of the waxing year, 
queens that were crowned like the full moon in broken windows. 
And you, dark one, hidden familiar, switchblade, 
last crescent of..."></div>
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