Under Tempest Waters
The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons, 16th October, 1834 [1834] by William Turner
By Ryan Bresingham
flash flood, flash
palms flecked with sawdust
cypress planks resting
at your feet, eyes drifting
to the ark you call haven
to the horizon beyond
land of milk and honey
your false promise
my false idol.
shoulders heavy
with gospel truth
as i finally realize
the angel and devil
are one and the same.
a divine revelation tolling
like a siren, a bell tower,
a lighthouse awaiting
the storm, not tomorrow
but today, ramsay!
for my vision of you
remains distorted
a surreal dream perhaps
seeds of forbidden
fruit spilled like tears
the fig forced down
with the sword of wonders
puncturing, cleaving
the heavens and the earth
eden’s tree of knowledge
sprouting fruitless mortality
the word, the truth, the light
revealing itself.
no longer enduring,
fulfilling, living, breathing—
your hand outstretched
waiting for my clasp
flesh of the beast
my heart of clay cracks
like the ground i stand on
mercilessly foolish
wisdom wiped clean.
for forty days
and forty nights
i have had daydreams of life
and love and beauty
millions of prayers
left unheard, unanswered
wondering if i’d ever see
a ray of sun from under
your somber shadow
teeth stained violet-black
from your temptation
wild and ripe, tender honey
sweet sentiment spoiled sour.
i see it now.
i see it, now more than ever—
like the flash flood flashing
before my open eyes.
the gates are open
waters so holy and infinite
mighty and everlasting
sweeping me off my feet
like you did so easily
so unbelievably effortlessly.
oh icarus, godless outlaw,
feathers and wax
cannot carry a sinister soul
bearing no likeness
to sacred sainthood.
i do not weep
when the tide pulls you down
and this time, as i swallow
what feels like centuries
of bitter, breaking darkness
my lungs welcome weeping winds
i earn my wild, wandering wings
and my spirit lays peacefully to rest.
slumbering sandcastles
churning waves, midnight butterflies
as my footprints in the sand match
the imprinted echoes of your time
here on earth, briar rose, dear aurora
my sleepless beauty, please rest easy
whoever said “sleep when you’re dead”
never actually wondered about those
sleepless souls wandering, for your foggy
eyes barely gift me glance, your charming
prince in a life long past, or maybe hamlet,
our tale tragically shakespearean. ophelia,
ophelia, o, woe is me, ophelia, return!
could true love’s kiss be your saving touch?
i can see the eternal ache for sand in your eyes
and a blinking awareness of being awake
after choking on the brink of life and death—
sorrowful suffocation.
there’s a lack of freedom when one
is confined to a permanent state of
conscious unconsciousness.
i thought death would be freeing.
i can’t carry this burden of memory
for its weight is too heavy, pounds and pounds
of beach molded into structure, architecture,
sandcastles of past and present and future,
for our real home, an apartment through
the canyon, now feels empty, secluded,
insanely forsaken—with rooms too big
to fit just one.
am i now mad? am i mad for watching
the phantom of a former romance
under silver moonlight dance the final dance
before judgment, the blade in your corpse’s chest
too violently deep to sparkle among dying stars?
sweet sleep belongs to the righteous,
and who’s to say you were without sin,
any more virtuous than i?
i as your spectator, your specter
pulls back the curtains of our bedroom
and drinks in the sunrise’s pale palette
coloring your hollow, sunken cheeks
with a tint of golden-shadowed blush,
feeling the shore wash between your toes.
the dawn of newborn day, the verse of a newborn
song, fated to a restless rest until the sun itself
burns out and the sea itself dries out
to nothingness.
for even within these sandcastles you cannot slumber—
only pray for a moment’s respite.
truly, i thought death would be freeing.
acceptance: the fifth stage
the taste of salt
swirls on your tongue
as the waves thrust you
beneath the surface
past sand and shore
where Atlantis meets your gaze
the lost city
a sublime utopia
of fallen statues
and hidden treasures
buried under kelp beds
and coral branches
which your fingers pry away
unearthing the body
of your father, wrinkles
creasing at his lips
like strips of seaweed
and you smile
noticing his fingers intertwined
with your mother’s
like two seahorses
linking their tails together
and you exhale
bubbles of blues, soothed to know
they made it
to the promised land.
Ryan Bresingham is a writer and aspiring screenwriter based in Los Angeles currently studying Creative Writing and Film Studies at Pepperdine University. He is a strong advocate for the Oxford comma, and he finds immense beauty in the power of storytelling.