The Bells at the Top of the World

And oh, can't you see the birds? And hear the bells at the top of the world? And see all the insane, wonderful, beautiful things of this reality?

Loneliness is a disease,

Such a terrifying state of being

That all those acquainted

With it avoid it like the plague it is.

Sometimes it's our fault,

For being eccentric, odd, 'crazy'.

Just because we can see and hear and taste

And touch and smell things that

Other people can't. We can hear the rustle of the trees,

And feel the rough surface of a gun under our fingertips.

We can see colors in the earth, hidden from their eyes.

And we can taste the wind on our tongues,

The sweet smell of sunlight drifting past our noses.

We can sense the birds, the ravens with polished bronze

Keys dangling from their beaks, and the cardinal's burning

Feathers, composed of flames. The phoenixes that carry the scent of

Fire, for the cardinals are their brothers and sisters,

But they also smell heavily of dark and pretty magic,

Long forgotten by people. Pheasants are fighters,

Felling enemies in one graceful swoop, a single scratch

From their poisoned talons meaning a painful death.

Oh, those unassuming,  fatal birds.

And then there's the eagles, frightening

Red obelisks for eyes, poised to strike.

Their sharp, curved beaks snap at gun barrels

And the tips of arrows. The thick manes of lions

That we tangle out fingers in, feeling the soft but matted

Fur underneath the palms of our hands.  They are the strange things,

But so are we. I am a odd thing, myself.

Other people can't see or sense the birds, can't feel the lion.

And so other people can't hear the song the blade sings as it

Flies through the air. Both a blessing and a curse, I suppose.

But they can't run with a stride that matches that of the

Purple-black wolf loping beside them. And they can't

Leap like a dignified cat, mottled fur ruffling in the wind.

They can't sense the broken little boy on the street, cowering

As everyone passes him by. But we are the people who take

His hand, who bring him to a shelter and come back to check on him

Every day for two months after that. We're the ones with the strays

Wandering about our house, welcoming us back when we arrive.

Because to us, it's worth it. And so we're the ones who wear crowns

Of autumn leaves, rubies nestled in their midst.

And emeralds glitter from our wrists, bound and

Held there with silver confines. A jade stone on a

Platinum chain swings from around our necks,

And garnets circle our ankles. Diamond encrusted

Clips hold our hair back, short or long,

Blond or brunette or ginger. They gleam from where

They sit, holding loose strands back from our faces.

Opals decorate our fingers, ornamented with gold bands,

And delicate swirls dipping in the sides. We seem to glow,

Inside and out, but that burns us at the edges.

And then there's the things, with thorns for teeth

And delicate rose petals for hair. New buds of

Spring are their eyes, and their bodies are stems,

Leaves fashioning clothes for these creatures.

We walk through fields and meadows with them

As our guides, as they show us the hidden wonders of

Our world. We love it, even as icy tendrils creep into summer,

And the snow giants take over, explaining concepts

Of winter beyond our comprehension. Like the idea that

For every frozen lake, there stands a spirit.

And oh, it is amazing, to be able to be one of them,

To be open to the world in such a way.

We sense all this, but there is a price to pay.

The absence of human company.

In order to sense these wonderful, fantastic things,

We sacrifice the accompaniment of normal, popular

People, as to outcasts, and still we accept these gifts.

Perhaps there is something worth loneliness.

The collection of things that don't make sense,

That defy logic. Maybe to belong to this group of

Misfits is to belong to something bigger,

And we aren't so alone after all.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed