i skirt the edge of reality
yet i remain sane
for i know it is there
and should i dare
decide aware
that i should re enter where
dead eyes stare
where mother's bear the weight
of their children's pain
and pray that rain will keep them safe
away from sin
stave the devil let the Lord settle in
which direction do i take
is it life or something like it
where's the line between real and fake
give and take
love and make
love
bless me father for I have sinned
i have walked with the dead and scorned the living
i have sacrificed life for my true soul is giving
to those that reside on the other side
the spirits taken from flesh and blood
from life and love in fire and flood
i speak to them in darkness true
they know me in this in-between
where space from life to death is seen
i hear their voices
i see their light
in the comfort of our trusted night
allow these few moments to remain
for they find comfort in my pain

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

I kept quiet as a mouse
Soppy did too; we stayed snake close
to the ground in the tall grass

we didn't hear no hounds,
but that didn't mean them dogs
weren't there

Soppy and I had done
what old lady Lucinda said--waded in the deep creek
a good hour to leave them curs nothin' to sniff

with my one clear eye
I could see them flames bobbin' up and down
like gold ghosts in the willows

the air smelled like rain
I prayed real hard it would come down
drown out them fires

that would be one mighty sign
the good Lord heard my prayers
and took pity on us

Soppy, me and whatever other souls
hid in the devil's dark, watchin' the flames,
fearin' they meant eternal damnation

The worst part is not knowing i'm about to drown.
The worst part is about how I drown.
No matter how far inland I travel,
there will always be sand between my toes,
silt under my finger nails,
and water in my lungs.

I wait patiently for the moon to bring the next tide.
Marking off the days until it comes to collect me.
And there is no point telling the moon,
"Sir I thank you all the same but, not today.."
And no matter the meadow I walk in,
I still breathe in the salty sea air
and it tires me so.

Picking the daisies.
Pulling off petals.
Today? not today? today? not today? today..

And you have to say goodbye each and every time.
How I wish I could stay.
Holding onto my hand.
You can only but watch
while I gasp for breath.
Panic fills my eyes as I lay among the flowers.
With the sky so pretty and so blue.
  
But I know how cold it is down there,
as the sea drags me deep.
Down I sink,
into it's murky depths.
Fathoms deep.

And I know that drowning
is the last thing I need to be worried about.
It's not what you die from,
it's how you die.
Drowning is nothing,
nothing compared to how I will die today.

And when all the air is gone.
And my lungs are full of brine.
And the fear of dieing is now.
The silence will begin.
There is a vast nothing.
Nothing to hear,
and nothing to see.
Nothing to feel,
and the sky is no more.

And when my skin is water logged
and grey,
the tide will turn.

I open my eyes to see the silver reflections,
like mirrored shards in the sea's sky.
I can see the watercolour sky through the sky
and it is a most beautiful blue.  
It is as if you had painted it just for me.
Just so I could find my way back home.
And maybe today there will be a sun.
And tonight there might be clouds.
And later,
when I am finally asleep,
there will be all of the stars.

And I will know that this time,
maybe this time, I will have lived again.

And my skin will be warmed by the sunshine.
And I will lay in the fragant meadow grass,
listening to your voice,
softly saying my name.

And I must count all of my fingers,
and I must count all of my toes.
Just to make sure
that all of me came back home.
Before the tide comes in.