A poet is a nightingale
Who sits in darkness in the wood

He sings to cheer his solitude
With sweet sounds noone's ever heard




"In His Land of Dreams"

Do not fall in love with an artist;
Her mind is both a framework
And a disarray
Of jumbled sentiments.
And once you embed yourself
Within her horizons,
She’ll fathom you into a masterpiece.
She’ll draw the way your lips form words
With mesmerizing hues
And bind your love
Into a collection of poetic utterances
And she’ll make an inconsequential language
Into an unconventional expression.
She’ll pluck strings
To embody the way your chest
Rises against her ear with each breath;
She’ll make you fall in love with creativity.
And one wrong move,
And you’ll become a masterwork in her array.

The more I learn,
the more I see religion as a man-made idea
to make us feel that we are some how special
compared to all the other life on earth.
I think I'm scared to accept this
because without my fear of the afterlife,
what else is really keeping my spirit
tethered to this world?
Love?
My need to not present myself
as a burden to others?
i d k . . .

You were restless
it’s the nights the world
made you nervous-
where stars have exploded
within you
but now fade out-
it’s these nights which
agitated you the most.

You start running circles
around the moon
chasing light years
trying to get to tomorrow
ahead of schedule
contained and prepared for
the unknown terrifying
you so much.

“Put fairy lights around
your neck, and lets go
outside," I declare,
"and pretend you’re a star
so I can chase you
around the garden,
until you fill yourself
with fearless light
reminding you
where one star burns out
another one shines.”

Your eyes shimmer
in the moonlight
they pay allegiance
to the night.

“See that there,” I point.

"A thousand stars..."

I smile; "A thousand stars...
It’s the promise you
made to the Universe,”

“To never burn out,” you say

I smile, “Yes! To never burn out.”                                

© Sia Jane

my tears aren’t forced
they flow in that
dark tunnel that she
dreamed so long ago
she wasn’t ready
to take her first steps
I wasn’t ready to
take mine without her.
Little things bring her back
like empty bowls or the tower
of books she’s never going to read.
People have been calling this a
trauma, but they’ve forgotten the
loneliness of life’s journey. She dreamed
a tunnel and added bright lights
and dusted the floor with powdery snow
she traveled far yet I can
only see the trails of
milk puddling around the lost key that she
dropped under blankets
of memory and phrases of
I-promise and tomorrow. I’m growing up as
she falls down. She wasn’t
perfect but that’s why it
was so easy to love her.
My journey’s ongoing, and the
deep undercurrents of pain and
grief are pulling me through
that tunnel.
I’m rowing softly by,
quietly, quietly,
as she is laid to rest.
her memories swallow the emptiness
she is kneeling at the throne.
I follow slowly and leave my
tears for her to know that life’s
path isn’t paved in water but
with sorrow, with endings, and with lost
boats on turbid seas.