The child floats inside the bubble,
Calm, unconcerned, at peace with
The walls that surround her.
The bubble keeps her in;
The bubble keeps the others out;
All is well, and she is content.
She drifts alone in solitary
Freedom, a single word printed
On the curving walls:
Alone.

The child floats inside the bubble,
Panicked, terrified, banging upon
The walls that surround him.
The bubble keeps him in;
The bubble keeps the others out;
Nothing is okay, he cries to himself.
He drifts alone in solitary
Confinement, a single word branded
On the curving prison walls:
*Lonely.

At the end of the day,
When all is said and done,
There’s only one thing that remains:
You.
Constant and never-ending,
You remain.
Unconditional and all-accepting,
You love.
Again and again,
You forgive.
You are perfect in every way
And I am proud to call You
Father
Teacher
Friend
God.

Beyond the perfect painted picture
Lies a chaotic catastrophe.
Inside the perfectly shaped box
Is a jumble of fragmented pieces.
Behind the flawless painted mask
Is dry, cracked clay.
Underneath the flawless skin
Is ripped and bleeding muscle.

The cream expanse is withered,
Dry and cracking in the heat.
The black words on the pages squirm,
Wriggling like worms in the haze.
At the same time, the cream is frozen,
Brittle and flaking in the cold.
The black words lie dormant,
Still and lifeless on the page.
And yet in this world of cream and black,
There’s another color that appears.
Its bright red crimson is glowing,
Leaking from the holes in the letters,
Dripping from the edges of the page.
The black text is alive;
The cream paper it inhibits is alive;
How could anyone say differently
Once they’ve seen the sparkling passion?

Let my words bleed,
Bleed truth,
Bleed life,
Bleed love.
Let my words bleed for you,
Staining the paper red
With my Self.

I hear the breathing of souls around me,
Hear each intake and exhale of life.
I hear the shuffling as they shift in their sleep,
And my heart sings them a soft lullaby.
I see them stretching as they yawn,
Stretching to the eternal sky.
I see them as they grow and learn,
Testing whatever waters they face.
I taste the sweat and blood they shed
And feel their joys and sorrows as my own.
I smell the very essence they leak
From every pore, every crack in their hearts.
I hear every intake and exhale of life,
The breathing of souls around me.

My Time is broken now—
Or maybe it always has been.
Yesterday seems so crisp,
Until it becomes Yesterday.
Years ago have been preserved perfectly
Within the recesses of my mind,
And yet Two Days Ago
Eludes my desperate grasp.
The ages blur together,
With only a clear snapshot in-between.
Where is the Doctor?
Where is the Repairman?
How much longer must I wait
Before my Time runs smoothly once again?

Relinquish the pencil, the paintbrush,
The paint and the water.
Do not worry about where you’re taken
Or what will be painted.
Let not these things trouble you.
Instead remain blank and open,
Willing to be painted by the ultimate hand.
Do not worry yourself with the picture—
Let the Painter take over,
And the picture He paints
Will be better than whatever you could have.
He brings His Canvas
To the right spot at the right time
And uses the right tools
To form the perfect Picture
That could only be made
On that one Canvas.

Can you hear it?
Do the strains of Earth
Reach to Heaven above?
I think you can hear it.
I want you to hear it.
I want you to hear it,
These notes entering my ears.
They remind me of you.
Can you hear it?
I’m sure you can.
You have to.
Please hear these songs.
Hear the floating,
Dancing, twirling notes
Of both joy and sorrow—
Hear the bittersweet
Tears rolling down my cheeks—
Hear them,
And remember me.

The clockhands spin,
‘Round and ‘round,
Trapped forever
In an endless cycle of chase and capture,
Flee and chase,
Chase and capture.
‘Round and ‘round
In an endless dance
That lasts long after the hands stop moving.
The hands will spin for eternity,
A backdrop to Life.

Red, green, blue, orange,
Black and gray and white,
Purple hues and yellows too
And colors of the night:
These are the pigments
That fill our world,
Morning, noon, and night.
How foolish it would be
If we couldn’t see
The colors of the day.
But we can hear and smell
And taste them, too,
So they never truly leave.

It’s the dark creature crouching in the corner.
You know it’s there, but you ignore it.
When it first came, it screeched into the room,
Clawing at your face, your chest, your arms—
Anything and everything it could reach.
But you fought it off, somehow,
After a long, sweaty, arduous journey.
Now it just sits there, brooding in the blackness.
You don’t look at it.
You don’t acknowledge it.
But it’s there—you know it’s there.
You can feel its presence like a vortex.
And it knows you know it’s there.
And sometimes it reaches out a gnarled, clawed hand
And grips your clothes or cups your cheek,
And ice inches down your spine
And crystals cascade down your cheeks.
Soon the creature will fade from its corner,
But replacing it will be a hole—
A hole in the very fabric of the room.

A thin crystal grows over the flame,
Inching up its tongues like ice.
Both burn with a raging intensity,
Contributing to each other’s pain.
The light shines through the creeping crystal,
Casting fantastic designs along the wall.
They dance in intricate choreography,
Twirling and dipping and leaping and flying.
Their lanky ephemeral forms lengthen
As the ice creeps ever higher.
The red burns low and sinks to orange
While yellow turns to gold.
Cold blue fire contributes its color—
Pale purple begins to appear.
Will the flame still burn
Within its cage of ice?
Will the crystal quell its heart
And keep it frozen for eternity?
Will the two become one,
Fusing together at last?

She danced with death.
At times they would wait on opposite sides of the room,
Stealing glances of each other around the other guests.
At others, they would stand so close
Their breath intermingled like the winds in the trees.
They held each other gently,
Both afraid to hold too hard
And have the other shatter into scattered fragments.
They would twirl and sidestep gracefully,
Making others yearn to watch
Yet afraid to do so, for doing so
Might upset the magical balance they’d set up.
And so the two dance on—
Waltzes, tangos, ballets,
Separating briefly to catch their breath
And to let the tension build from across the room.

Death, my friend, your hands are so cold.
You cup my cheek and ice ****** my teeth.
You’re so cold, Death, my friend. So cold.
Don’t you want some heat, some warmth?
Will you take some from me?—
I’ll gladly give it, you know—my warmth.
I’m not using it. But you can, if you want.
Death, my friend, you look so sad.
Your eyes are drawn, your cheekbones haggard;
The corners of your mouth are downturned.
Smile, Death, please. Smile for me.
I want to see the flicker of colour in your skin.
Will you smile genuinely for me?
I’ve seen your wan smile, you know.
That is no way to smile—monochrome
Has no right to alight on your face.
Death, my friend, you look so lonely.
You’re not alone, not forgotten.
I’m with you, I see and remember you,
I am not afraid of you. I like you.
You’re my friend, remember? Your friend.
Friends want friends to be warm,
To smile with every colour that has ever graced
A paintbrush, a canvas, a child’s dream.
Death, my friend, why are you holding me?
Is my warmth helping? Have I made you happy?
Death, my friend, your arms are so warm.
Or am I just cold in comparison?
Death, my friend, thank you for smiling so beautifully.
I’m glad you’re warm.

In the deep shade cast by a towering mountain
Lies a monstrous warehouse. And inside this warehouse
Is column after column after row after row after row
Of shelves, shelves, shelves, more shelves,
Fading off into the gloom of the farthest corners.
And on each of these shelves sit dolls—
Hundreds, thousands, millions—billions?
And each of these dolls is defected.
The reason for the defect is branded across the forehead,
Melted plastic forming the biting words:
Pathetic.
Weak.
Prideful.
Snappy.
Self-centered.
Egotisti­c.
Stupid.
Ignorant.
Useless.
And on and on and on these dolls sit,
Shelf after shelf, row after row, column after column.
The dolls gradually age—slowly, almost unnoticeably.
But they age. Each is an “improvement”
Of the one next to her.
The newer model would get though a bit more,
Last just a bit longer, but still fail at some point.
And so the brander draws near, and brands the skin,
Melting plastic to drip softly down as tears.
But the doll can’t cry.
She’s already been shut down and awaits
The day the space next to her will be filled.

The dew is frozen.
It glitters on the ground like crystal,
Diamonds to those who see.
It brings an edge to the world,
As though everything’s in sharp focus.
So ephemeral, this frosty dew,
Gracing us only so long as it’s permitted.
Its cold beauty is breathtaking,
And demands silent reverence.
So why, then, do people find it
Nothing more than a nuisance,
And yet gripe when its life expires?
Beautiful even in death,
The dew blesses our sight with its grace,
Reminding us that every so often,
Silence must be kept,
So that the world may speak to our hearts.

When heads are bowed
And eyes are closed,
The soul escapes.
They leave the Earth
And float on high
Throughout the aether.
They drift together,
Bumping into each other,
Sharing thoughts and feelings.
It’s a beautiful sight,
A beautiful feeling,
Those glittering souls.
Free from the burdens of life,
Bathed in the warm glow above,
All is well.
Until, at least, to the physical
They return.

The colors used to be separate
And lined up neatly in rows.
One could clearly tell just where
One color ended and another began.

But something happened.
Something changed.

The colors melted, swirled
Together on the canvas and
Dripped down, down, down,
Down the canvas, the canvas
That began to stretch and stretch
Off the table and across the floor
And out the door, off to infinity.
There's just a mixed, melted mess
Dripping down my arms and into my lap.
But it hasn't ended yet.
Will I end up consumed,
Or will I make sense of the chaotic colors
Once again?

There’s a difference
Between drowning
And sinking.
Both refer to
Being immersed in
A body of liquid.
But drowning
Means you’re rejected.
Drowning
Means you and the liquid
Are at odds—
You’re in the liquid
But you’re not of the liquid;
You are not one
With the liquid.
You cannot breathe,
You cannot hear anything
But your own screams
And your own terror,
You cannot see anything
Other than darkness.

But sinking is different.
Sinking
Means you’re accepted.
Sinking
Means you and the liquid
Have come to an agreement—
You’re in the liquid
And you’re of the liquid;
You are one
With the liquid.
You can breathe,
You can hear everything
Along with soulbeats
And the elusive love,
You can see everything
Cloaked in majestic light.

Thus is the difference
Between drowning
And sinking.
There is death in drowning
But life in sinking.
I’d rather sink.
Which you do prefer?

The dryads shake their boughs in the cold half-light,
Their bright, faded leaves leaving handprints on the sky.
They sigh to the wind all their troubles and woes,
Their roots absorbing the wisdom of the Earth.
“Come to us,” they call to the bright-eyed traveller.
“Come and share in our universal knowledge;
“Listen to the croak of the frog, the hoot of the owl;
“Exchange breath with the deer and the lion;
“Remain as we are, everlasting far into eternity.”
Eternity is nothing to the dryads beckoning the traveller.
Their bark shivers in anticipation of the future,
But they know all will be well. “It always is.”
And so they crane their selves towards the travellers,
Hoping they will hear their everlasting message
And join in the blissful peace so oft deserved.

Swirling around in a cloud of chaos,
Of cacophony and disillusionment,
The person floats aimlessly in deep space.
Atom after atom rips itself away
And goes spinning off into the UnKnown.
Dust created, so return to dust.
The person flings arms wide, wide,
To encompass all of the cosmos,
Revel in that which is complex beauty,
Be at peace with Knowing but Not.
And the face begins to swirl
As the dust environment does
And so the person is physically unKown,
Known by personality only,
For the universe has reclaimed the mask.
The arms slowly begin to fade
Just as the face crumbles in finality;
More and more atoms flee
To rejoice in their newfound freedom
Until at last the heart swirls to dust,
Unleashing the long-imprisoned soul
To fly, unbridled, around the world—
Beyond the world—beyond, yes,
Even the farfetched, unrealized dreams.
Flying, swirling, one with All,
Bound by no chains, child of love.

Eighteen years.
Eighteen long years I've lived on this planet,
Slaving away as another conformist to most rules
(But only so I could survive
And get an education, despite the breakdowns
As my mind couldn't handle the pressure
Of today's expectations).
At times I thought I wouldn't make it;
My lows were... pretty low;
They sometimes cancelled out the highs completely,
Or at least made them seem not so high.
But somehow, I made it,
Along with all the other eighteen-year-olds.
And so I say, congratulations.
We made it.
We may be beaten, bruised, and battered,
Broken, cracked, and frayed,
But we're here.
Brace yourselves.
We're in for a whole new set of challenges.

Blue and yellow arcs
Of pure energy,
Pure electricity,
Dance dangerous footsteps
On the thin wings
Of the butterfly.
Is it protection?
Or is it a curse?
Helpful or harmful,
Not even the butterfly knows.
The dangerous beauty
Holds audiences captive
As the energy arcs and leaps
To a tune others can’t hear.
Up and down, the wings flap
While the energy glows eerily
In the dark, (un)dreary night.
A flash of azure,
A sunspot spit out—
The black midnight body
Lit up by the light all around.

Let me see with the eyes of a child—
Pure, innocent, naive,
Unaware that mental boxes exist.
Let me see things in that special light
That shines forth from everyone,
Past any dark sins and evils.
Let Death return to an inquisitive curiosity
At the sudden stillness of an insect or a fish
And not bloom into a growing ache
That lingers in the heart.
Let the colors be revived
And all sights become brand-new.
Let the boundaries be erased
And laughter be drawn instead.
Let me see, as a child does,
The true power of a warm embrace
Or a friend that never leaves.
Let me see with the eyes of a child
Just once more,
Before even my current vision fails me.

Time keeps marching on.
We are powerless to stop it.
Our strongest forces
Cannot halt the ticking story.
But
What we can do
Is stretch it out—
Stretch time out—
Make every second count,
Fill every minute
With the beating hearts of life.
That is what we can do.
That is how we can remain strong
In the wrinkled, weathered face
Of Time.

The dust and grime and dirt and death—
The darkened gloom of corners near—
Invade the mind with waning breath,
Steal peace of mind with petty theft;
And lightless grins rise up and leer
Until you think there’s nothing left.

Disillusioned.
Misinformed.
Following nothing
But smoky shadows.
Cold and calculating,
Warm and thick—
When cool heads
Meet hot blood,
The results
Are disastrous.
Flames extinguished
By watery tears.
Far away,
Right in front—
It’s all the same.
It’s all the same
Dark red
And gray water.

The fish flies with fins of fire,
Following fellow friends
To the depths of the sky.
A sashay of the hips,
A flick of the fins—
Cast embers to Earth.
Melding, molding, moving—
These fish of flames flee
The wet bonds below.
Free at last, the fire fins grow.
Gold now—blue—
Brighter than the moon,
Brighter than the stars
That beckon them forth.
And so the fire fish fly with fins
And reject the world’s reality.

The fires of war will burn
Deep within the heart.
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The enemy we spurn—
Their blood spreads far apart.
The fires of war will burn.

“Bring us death, sir. Please,” the wounded yearn.
“We have done our part.”
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The war’s at last adjourned.
Off the fields I cart
The fires of war that burn.

Soldiers pile up in heaps. I turn—
I list the dead in charts.
Ev’ryone the ache of loss will learn.

The past will ne’er return.
The conflicts always start.
The fires of war that burn
The ache of loss will learn.

I want to write something deep and poetic
About the fireworks I saw.
But all I can come up with
Is the physical attributes—
The seeing that I did,
The hearing that I did,
The feeling that I did,
The experiencing that I did.
Red comets shot upward
In a slight arcing path
To explode in brilliant light
And rain down upon the spectators.
There’s a hush of anticipation in the audience
Between the moment they notice
The curling smoke trail,
The breathtaking visual display,
And the slightly delayed KERPOW
As the firework’s sound
Finally makes its way through the air.
Each exploding fragment
Fizzles through the air with a quiet hissing,
Competing with the screeching
Of the next firework going up.
It’s almost kind of sad:
Each firework aims for the sky,
Reaches as high as it can go,
Leaving behind bits of itself as it does so,
But hits some invisible ceiling—
Some fireworks’ ceilings
Are higher than others—
And that is their maximum.
They can take no more,
They cannot reach the sky,
They cannot reach the stars,
They cannot reach their brethren,
And so they explode in their sadness or anger;
But in doing so,
They light the way for others.

My flesh is a shell,
And I the soul that inhabits it.
Yet the soul is not attached—
It is merely enclosed within
The soft shell of flesh.
I drowse—I dip—
My head lolls in fatigue—
I bolt awake, the flesh snapping—
A moment of disconnect
As the soul still lingers
Just two inches to the left.
Woozy, disconcerting, normal
After many years.
Normal, but not admired—
Gentle heavings are not uncommon
As the soul attempts to escape
The prison walls of flesh.
Pain is felt twofold:
Once in the heart of the soul,
Once in the chest of the flesh.
Surreal, this overlay
Of soul and flesh.
But one becomes accustomed to it
After many, many years.

If you see a set of footprints
Leading off into the distance,
Do not follow them their course.
You may follow them a ways,
But make sure it’s brief;
Do not follow them their course.
Turn to the left, or maybe to the right,
And forge ahead, my child—
Create your own set of footprints.
You may use the other footprints
For warnings—maybe models,
But it’s important that you make your own.
If you follow not others
And instead follow that which is in you,
You will see sights no one else has,
Accomplish feats unique to you.
Climb the mountains, cross the rivers,
Sail the oceans, survive the deserts,
Thrive in forests, and tame the tundra,
And your footprints will leave their mark
And you will be remembered.

For a moment,
I am changed.
For a moment,
I cease to have an early body.
For a moment,
I melt away.
For a moment,
I am no longer myself.
For a moment,
I am Love itself.
For an instance,
My arms are no longer arms
But are tendrils.
For an instance,
My embrace is not physical
But emotional.
For an instance,
I turn into Love
And wrap the other
In a penetrating warmth
That I pray reaches
The beating heart within.

What words there are to express
The frigid beauty that’s encased
In the fragile film of frosted glass.
The glittering frost that lies on top
Shines forth with pin-***** stars,
Flashing brilliantly white before fading
To a pacific, powder blue
Tinted with a faded lilac hue.
And housed within its cold embrace
Is a soft mystery of timeless age.
Its fleshy tones swirl, unmeshed, together,
Painting stories within stories
And realities within dreams.
The pearl bows and greets the jay
Who waltzes with the jade;
The ruby stretches slowly
As the coral wakes beside it.
And all above their thin-pressed heads,
A frozen dome of crystal
Breathes its breath into the wind.

The edges are neat and crisp,
And the wrapping paper gleams
In the weak sunlight
Filtering down from above.
Old, wrinkled hands reach out
And grasp the boxed gift.
Flakes of charred, black skin
Drift down upon it like ashen snow.
Slowly, carefully, the trembling hands
Undo one corner after another,
Flap of paper after flap of paper,
Until at last the brown box shows through.
The box is opened by the hands
As someone waits nearby,
Watching patiently to the end.
The box at last is opened,
And the gift inside is revealed:
Nothing is inside that box,
Nothing but air.
Confused, the hands life pleadingly
To the watching man nearby.
The man smiles warmly
And grasps the hands in his.
Instantly, the hands are healed--
New skin blooms
Where there once was burnt flesh.
And together, the two--
The new and the old--
Disappear into a golden light
That’s pouring from the box.

The pages crumble in my fingers
And wither away to nothing.
The letters swirl off the page
And find some other soul to comfort.
The binding becomes unraveled
One stitch and glue string after another,
Melting down to nothing more
Than liquid sinking through the floor.
The covers themselves are eaten by the darkness,
The voracious darkness that never slumbers.
All I’m left with are my stark white hands
And a rectangular hole in my chest.

If trees could speak,
What would they say?
Could they recount the tales
Of all who crashed
Under their boughs?
Do they keep a list—
Even make it a game—
Of how many cars pass
Per day, per week, per decade?
Do they remember
Each fallen brethren,
Move to catch them
When they fall?
Do they have rivalries
About the biggest size
Or the best patch of soil
Or the most growing seeds—
Or are they past all that
And the weeping willows
Took it upon themselves
To weep for us humans
Who distinguish between
Small insignificances?

The writer pours his soul into being,
Letting his blood turn to black ink.
It splashes onto the pages and forms words,
Words that give his life meaning.
He sits back, looking at his hands,
His hands that created this wonderful work.
But then he pauses, staring in captive horror—
The words—his words—are moving—
Moving quickly—squirming—rising up—
Bunching together—swarming toward him—
They’re at his hands now—no, his arms—
His neck—choking him—darkness—
*Why?

If there’s a group of people,
And each one has an imaginary friend,
And you put those imaginary friends together,
What do you get?
Do you get a Super imaginary friend?
Do you get a real person?
I’d like to know.
You see, I think I’m one—
A compilation of imaginary friends.
I’m real but I’m not
There to interact with anyone.
At least, I think I’m real.
But doesn’t every imaginary friend?
Or do they know they’re imaginary?
Do these thoughts of mine
Prove my imaginary status?
I don’t think real people
Imagine they’re imaginary.
Do they?

A single point on a long line
Stretching off into Eternity—
A single dot—Doesn’t seem like much.
At first.
But that one single point
Sends an impact down the line—
Left and right, the impact carries.
Flash forward, flash back—
It’s all the same.
Before and after are impacted.
Neither will ever be the same.
Some people will miss the point—
One small speck it is,
Easily overlooked by many.
But the residual energy resides
And continues travelling
For all Eternity.

The little lamb totters around on unsteady legs,
Pretending
That its limbs are sure and strong.
It diverts from the flock,
Frolicking and prancing around in the mud.
Oh! What’s this? Grass! Green grass!
Better grass!
It charges forward, fast as its scrawny,
Spindly legs can go.
The lamb’s almost there, when
BLAM!

Silly lamb.
There’s a wall there, you know.
No matter how hard you try,
You won’t get pas—
Oh. You did.

The lamb munches happily on this new grass.
It finishes and looks around.
It bleats in alarm when it sees
How far the flock has gone.
It bleats again, charges forward…
BLUNK!

Stupid lamb.
The wall’s gone and sealed itself.

KUNK!
THWUNK!

It won’t reopen.
Stupid, stupid lamb.

The language drifts around like smoke,
Curling around fingers and through minds,
Whispering of things half remembered,
And hinting at new knowledge.

Two lefts don’t make a right.
But I make use of this.
I want to make the left left choice,
Find the left left word.
Because this left left word
Is the opposite of the “right” word.
It does in the opposite direction,
Forges its own stream.
And this is the left left choice.
This is my way.

A lighthouse,
Pure, bold, and strong,
A light in the darkness,
A reminder of things hidden,
A beacon to the lost,
A respite to for the weary,
A friend to the ones who have lost hope.
A lighthouse
Is an object, physical,
Real in the shifting fog;
A lighthouse
Is also a metaphor
And its uses stretch out
Like the light it shines forth.
It governs and protects;
It strengthens and it warms;
It does the job it’s meant to do
And remains a light for all.

I see the tears,
Of anger, of sadness, of loss.
I know not anymore—
I have forgotten by now—
What happiness, joy, and thankfulness
Mean, what they look and feel like.
There is only darkness down here,
And I have hardened my heart
Against the pleas of humans
Lest my light be extinguished as well.
So when Orpheus came knocking
With his bright, lively music,
My heart was opened,
And I could feel it beating once more.
So this is what Love is,
How Happiness glows from within.
It was a beacon in my dark world,
And rekindled my hope.
It was for him and myself
That I let Eurydice go,
But my heart still encased
A small chip of ice,
And my cynical side
Told me I had to test him.
One simple request I gave,
One simple instruction:
Don’t look back; have faith
That your other half will follow.
I waved them off with pleasure
And a rosy hue warming
My cold blue flesh.
I wait with anticipation:
Their love is strong—
Surely this will work.
Surely they will both make it
To the flowers and the grass above.
But a wail and a sob drift to me,
And I feel a tug in my chest:
The feeling I get when a soul drifts down
And joins me in my dank, dark halls.
Eurydice sails past me, pale and blue;
She leaves a sparking trail behind her,
Filled with sadness and anger
And the faint taint of life.
I can see, in my special godly way,
Orpheus far above, crouching in the Sun,
His hands in front of his face
As tears burst from his shut eyes
And his heart is squeezed by invisible hands;
His golden lyre lies beside him, broken.
I close my eyes and sigh,
Disturbing the flames dancing next to me.
My soul count will increase by one
In three, two… one.

They wish to lionize me,
But I refuse.
I turn my face away
But still look them in theirs
And tell them plainly,
“No, that’s not for me.”

A mouse is a mouse
No matter how big
The mane that’s ****** upon it.
A lion roars,
So big and proud,
But he lazes about in the sun
As his fur grows warm
And his eyes grow heavy.
A mouse is small,
But she’s busy.
Her heart pounds fast
As she avoids being seen
While at the same time
Leaving traces of her existence.

The lion will never
Sneak around in secret,
And the mouse will never
Boldly squeak for attention.

A mouse is small;
Any mane would go unnoticed.
A lion is big;
It will be noticed even without his crown.

And as a mouse
Will never be lionized,
Neither will I.

The flow of people swirls around me,
Waxing and waning and ebbing with the light.
They stand and gawk, awe frozen on their faces,
But I can only look serenely on
While my heart of marble flakes inside.
I look down upon them, those children dear,
But I cannot touch their warm flesh
Nor feel their living, breathing heartbeats,
Just as they cannot touch my frozen skin
Nor come close enough to hear my suppressed cries.
Day after day I must stand and watch
Over these lives that flick past before me.
Day after day I am reminded of the loneliness of stone.
Day after day they see nothing but a statue,
A statue without a heart or a soul,
A statue on a pedestal.

Dustdirtgrimefire
Burningburningsulfuracrid
Acidshrapnelpainflare­
Whatwhereconfusion
Flashbangsilencedark
Warmliquiddrippingcold
F­lickerdarkalonehand
My hand No
Not my hand
Hand handnoarm
Cold hand
Alone with me
Shallowbreathingbeatingheart
Chesthurtscan’tmove
Explosionchao­ssilencescreaming
Hellonotonguedead
Helpnocrystrong
Wincecoughsta­bhelp
Lightwaitnowhy
Handreachingeyeblinking
Handarmtorsohead
Per­sonlightblindinghurts
Is this the end?

I lead him to the gallows--
My child, my child.
I do not want to let him go yet.
Not to the gallows,
Those metal jaws of finality.
But I know in my heart
That I have to.
He's been holding my hand for a while now,
Pulling me ever closer.
I did not want to listen.
I did not want to acknowledge those gleaming silver teeth.
But, my child, you have pulled me close.
You have shown me your heart,
And your eyes full of tears.
You know it is time.
So goodbye, my child.
Let me kiss you one last time
Before you release my hand
And stand upon that podium
Where you will disappear.
Let me hear your voice one last time.
I love you, my child, my child.
I love you.