I once made a hobby of
softly blowing your tears down the pillow
towards the edge that rests upon the mattress,
where my finger would wait
to collect each and every drop.
That way, I believed
your dreams will never get soaked
and you will not be so sad
anymore.

Putting out fires
is an impossible task
when all you can find
are poems of paper
wooden hopes
and faith wrapped with
a decomposing cloth
rather
it is better to just
cast those into the pyre
perhaps as fuel these will
suspend
the creeping night
for just a moment further

I have spoken the words of others
for far too long
or maybe,
others talked through me
borrowing my voice
dismantling my speech as it is uttered
the shattered puzzle of my thoughts
is reconstructed as seen fit
to benefit the battle fought
by strumming on my chest
and plucking on my vocal cords
and patting on my crest as if to say
Behold!
Your mangled call has brought
the sunrise once again.
You are entitled to its glow.
how dare I stop
when dawn is on the line?
might as well hum the notes
the fiddler plays
as I march forth to oblivion
obedient, and mute.