Where dust divides, a hue of difference in colours,
A country, one side, then other, invaders
We're mere humans, yet we claim our provenance
Confining gaze, a breath of tainted air.

The wall ascends, a shadow cast in fear,
A tangle wrought, where whispers disappear.
Eyes, distant pools, reflect a foreign face,
A phantom "other," in this bounded space.

We carve our claims, on earth we cannot own,
A fleeting reign, on seeds of discord sown.
Then plunder deep, and leave the hollow shell,
A vacant home, where echoes darkly dwell.

We chase the sting, to taste a fleeting sweet,
A twisted chance, where joy and sorrow meet.
A wheel that turns, a truth we cannot break,
A hollow faith, for empty futures sake.

What bones lie buried, beneath our polished lies?
A silent scream, where nature slowly dies.
The withered leaf, the silenced, hunted cry,
Reflect the void, where true reflections lie.

Beyond the walls, beyond the love and hate,
A question hangs, a sealed and shadowed fate.
Are we but echoes, of the lines we drew?
Or something more, forever breaking through?

We are one but thousand more
the fields that grow more than one grain
We look in our hands, the bone structure
Find the colour only when I become just dust.

Ever wonder what changes be in history
If victors lost and the other side raised the flag
We'll be uprooted to another philosophy
We're bred, We don't keep our originality.

Hushed in silver mist,
antlers cradle dying light
dawn bows at its feet.

Snow Bird
Invisible in the flakes
Of a white world
Waiting for the spring to spark a change
And the winter’s heart to succumb
To a flaming savior’s wings.
Though, wouldn’t it be fine,
For a fire’s wretched feather
To bring the land’s demise?
On each, the Snow Bird thinks,
For every minute’s precious gift;
To deny it would be as just.
And it sings,
In each choice no mind is paid,
It only dreams of new life
For either way,
He shall be set free
And a white peace
shall be made.

I understand
the language
of sad mornings
I understand the
turning wheels
of cruel madness
I understand
because I have
learnt from the
poets the teachers
of sorrowful things
and through this
thin grey light
I can see the
ghost of her
flying like a
painted bird
I rest amongst the
scattered leaves
I listen to the
weeping of swans …
Clay.M