~For Ayesha~

for simply put,
or
simply taken,
they’re a disguise...

eternal guards on duty,
alphabet soldiers that
grow more vigilant

standing reef,
a barrier,

a thousand years to erosion complete.

this is the right poem, but the wrong words. Mystified me, how
can this be? such a young person, whose words speak to me?

If we are not our words, what will we become?

Emerald eyes;
Ones sharp enough
To cleave the soul itself
And pierce a hopeful heart.

Built to be selfless,
Yet made to self destruct.
Internal compassion
Was never meant to be
For this sorrowful existence.

The white blanket recedes
Revealing a jade carpet.
Snow comes,
And snow goes.

It’s a youthful romance
Of heaven and earth.

They buried an elephant
here, in 1922:

White and brown
wet and scattered
branches.

every lie is a *****, rusting, digging into more of what lives in my chest. if you can imagine how a spider's walk sounds, then you'll hear my brown bones closing over this thing that is red. my body is a crowd of one, a room full of me: i stay caged between 4 walls, and it is lonely.

be still so the hounds don't bring you down, not so still that they win without a fight. be still, red thing, but not so still that you may never move again. the world has an appetite for your kind of soul: their mouths, yours too, will be used against you; they'll swallow your tongue and say it was their food.

confined to this live-wire city, you wonder if you chose to be unseen. you wonder when you stopped seeing, too, stopped being a girl with a mouth full of teeth and a red rose that bloomed when she would sing, dance, dream, a girl with less to care for and more to care about, a girl who knew a thing before she was told how she ought to know it.

so what do i know? i sit in this car, i go up this road following signs that read 'home', watching traffic lights come and then go, greening it all the way to the highest hilltop. but mountains tower in the backdrop, the way down becomes an endless ***** and these burning lamps line the sides in warning, urging me to keep to the road.

there is wind in my hair, stars in the radio, and the man in the passenger seat is someone i won't know. he has brown eyes, warm skin, a Cheshire cat grin, and he is everything i hoped he would be, it's unreal. he's here in this scene, in the credits to a movie that plays on repeat, with me on this road to a home that never shows.

and everything bows to the clock anyway so i take charge of the man, the car and the stars, i take charge of the hounds and the spider in my mouth, i take charge of the heart and the bones and the dark, and i let the clock pull me out, out, out and into the arms of something new.

You can memorize the face of a stranger
After seeing them for six seconds
Six months later they’re in your dream
Making you wonder what if you had talked to them
Your brain creates scenes of lifelong friendship
Another where they’re your nemesis
One where you go out a few times,
But they never call back
Then in a flash
Their face is gone
As if you’d never seen them
And life goes on

The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence

Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing

Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ******, and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust

Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender

That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.

For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.

Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.

The lark does not sing at night,
Or not tonight at least.
When the darkness settles
And so does the mist,
The lark is nowhere to be heard.  

When the lark does not appear,
Neither does the deer.
With her majestic coat
And soft black eyes,
She goes into her hiding place.

When the deer is not seen,
The flying trout do not fly;
Nor do they merrily swim
Across the river's bay, no longer
brightly shimmering.

When the river is dull,
And the skies are dullened
By winter's smouldering cold,
Where on earth will I find the nature
My heart so fervently yearns?

The fabric of our life
Should  be comfortable
And not deprive us
Of sleep
The words we say
Can only go so deep
Yet what a   bountifull
Harvest to reap
From those shallow seeds
And keep this in mind
No matter how cleverly
We sneak up upon a mirror
It will eventually
Look right into your eyes
That being said .....
The question lies......
How often do you see
Your own eyes?
How long do those eyes
Look back at you
Do they make you smile
Or do you smile because
Of the feeling they give you?
Or do those eyes pierce right through  your disguise,
Straight into the poison
You ve been trying to hide
revealing true feelings
Those things you try to conceal
In stead of dealing
You comply which denies
Life
By covering the mouth
Of your spirit
Too many times will suffocate and brake it
The pain you feel comes from within
And......
The caliber of person you are  depends
On the friends you keep
More importantly
The caliber of person
They are depends upon
The caliber of people they keep
ALWAYS remember the things you do !
Speak
Volumes of you

Only you
Cannot give an account
Of what or why
Those things
Which amount to
Everything
can only be told of by
Someone other than you

She dances in the dark spots
Between the street lights, like
A patient drunkenly twitching
Before an operation,  

There is but a lick of anxiety
In her performance, deprived
Is she by her cruel audience, but
To their defence
They are merely the empty foliage
That sit on each side of the city lane,
Like shadowed guards
Who gleefully imprison her in chains,

Where will she go
After the moon retires and
The trees offer her the key ?

Perhaps, she will follow the stray cat
Down the dimly painted alley, will
She give in to the ***** feline, who  
Beckons her with a fickle whine
And who stares obtusely
With such precise baby-doll eyes,

Or will she simply sink
Into the leaf smothered ground,
Face anchored and stitched
To the pavement, her beauty
Famished and her heart envious
Of the four-pawed beast
Who now dances on her corpse.