the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.

are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller

and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones

and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.

the sky weeps white.

but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.


...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)

I carve another tally into the walls of this prison
As my heart sits beating against the bars of my rib cage
I slice at the cell that is my skin
Craving the strength to dig an escape
Through the tunnels of my veins.
Rivers flow over the hills of my eyes and thighs,
Some saltwater, some blood.
I wish I could terraform,
Or just blast it all,
So my prison is gone, the ruins left for next of kin.

In a loud corridor
Full of young people
I move slowly, reconciled.
I have lived a little longer than they have.
And yet I do not know how
They recognize my face,
They smile at me so calmly.

On the walls
Reproductions of masters.
One calls me,
Face distorted,
Naked in his suffering.
I stop my thoughts.
I look.
I see his bitten soul.
Too many sunsets
in blood-red color.
He and she,
They lost everything
And yet they still see
so much love.

I am already with them,
on their portrait.
I am part of these colors.
I search in a corridor of eclipses,
Flashing hopes.
To soothe their dignity,
To save the bond between them.

I take this story in my hands, so gently.
Together, we look into earthly wounds.
We allow them to scar over,
Day after day,
Year after year.
Until they grow over with life.
Until they grow over with green grass.
I will be happy.
Observing how they grow in true strength
Of human fragile beings,
Of impatient humanity, longing to be reborn.