The myth of what is real -
I want to know the truth.

Does the winding river feel,
does the tree speak of its youth?

the wind is a song
that bends those velvet petals
for the lips of bees

The beast, in solitude, who roams these woods,
of wisdom only he is led to know,
he wears a crown so heavy on his head,
and walks through autumn, summer, spring, and snow.

He is not seen, but wearily, is feared -
a figure hiding deeper in the minds,
the hunters and the people keep away,
although the beast is difficult to find.

On stilts, he wades and crosses riverbeds
a mind so keen, remembering the way.
The burden of his crown does not weigh him,
the wind invites him to a gentle sway.

So many moons have passed the monster's eyes -
he knows how rivers come to meet the lake;
So when the hunter settles down to aim,
the moose is still, and it is no mistake.

Once upon a midday mourning,
thoughts and thrashing came a-swarming -
came to me, without a warning,
stayed in tide 'till the next morning.

in your eyes
a monster lies;

in your smile
a steep beguiled
beast.

in your hair
flames that flare
and cease.

in your mind
what will I find?
an ever delicious
feast.

and in your song
a siren call,
a melody ever
triste.

at the end of winding roads, you still follow.
I believe in everything you are
to me, you are the reason and the means
to anything and everything I need.

fragile hands shaking;
I have sharpened the sword's blade.
You stand as my ghost

hover behind me

yes, I am unlimited;
like a record
doomed to replay
its brokenness
forever.

I will not break,
I am the friction of fire
and ropes tethered to cement
and anchors shattering coral.

I am unlimited
unlimited
with limited time
and limited self.

but yes, i am unlimited -

I have lost so much in so little a time,
I forget this and this and this moment is mine.

I have watched you love
seen you hate
and I know the horrors
of forgetting to appreciate.

and I sing of my dreams
as if they are to be
though I am afraid
that forever caged, I'll be.

and in the dusk
where all days end
will we find ourselves in the hues
of gold into darkness

-

in the dawn,
we were brought
from summer into fall
cleansed into being

and now it is spring into summer
and we close this moment
with a song
a celebration
a sunset

When Innocence has a baby,
born in Spring,
they name her
"Loveliness"
"Pure"
"Precious"
"Her"

the life breathing in will quell the dread of a burning day before you; for, in the mornings, the air is fresh and chilled,
and you may graze in the openness

until the flowers fulfill you,
awaken you.

Take your forest path, your field trail, the one you marked yourself
for these moments. And bring the dogs,
let their leashes be loose,
let your soul be freed here, in this scenery.

who am I
who am I
who am I;
I feel like a flower, forgetting rain while it is sunny.

Write and
Write and
Write and
Write.
With your pencil
Be the knight.

in the rain I feel restored

you say,
walk out to the view with me before we go,

and I forget the drone of cities and am looking at it, with you

God or that breeze, spoke out and I could feel the caress on my young face. An intimacy only longing could tell you.

take care not to abandon me,
the blue things whispered as they fell apart in the terrible fog of forgotten memories.

Under the sun we are beautiful beings.
I want to spend my moments in this light with you

death takes over us,
with a kiss to break this spell;
the longest lover.

What am I to do?
Even when I'm not thinking,
I'm thinking of you.

there is a sculpture
she claims unsketchable
of a woman in a mangled
frozen pose

the people flock to kiss
her pale lifeless feet
and gaze up in such proximity
to the angelic, unravelled woman
who becomes something more
in their gazes

but we sit from afar
and she marvelled at those wings
at the bends and swerves of that limestone
or marble
at the spine and the cracks

the prose of anonymity in beauty without a face,
a fetish,
just awe in raw skill

the ocean batters
reckless waves and constant storms
but the rock is still

My eyes see things differently than how things actually are.
Everyone's eyes do.
Our glasses are fogged
we see life through interchangeable perspectives.

I miss being a little girl,
ignorant and happy and loved.

I took a break on
trying. But tomorrow is
when I try again.

not immune, but blind and used to
what your habits do to you.

I am a cat.
Curiosity has killed me.

where can blame be laid
if not next to a body
after no one claimed it for themselves?

The lady of burdens,
she who walks unseen, in darkness,
with stealth and blade.
She comes unsummoned and slices shadow.
She knows only remorse,
cursed always to follow one path.
She slays all things of dissonance,
and is deaf to the songbirds.

What could have saved her from this life?
If only she had turned to see the morning -
light beyond a castor of shadows.

Face them, I'd like to tell her.
They look like shadows but when you touch them,
They turn into fireflies.

there are two sides of this moon -
one has always been cast in darkness,

and the other,
a mirror for the sun.

but she is ethereal, though she takes all light and dark

and she is steady, though the tides she turns are monstrous

and she is encompassing, for without her we would have been cast in our own shadows.

she is battered with asteroid collision, entrapped in this gravity,
protecting the mother that kills itself.

one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist.