How cathartic it is when tension is suddenly lithe;
I had cried ile for far too long.

I stop for water at the sight of the creek;
it is night, she had bid me goodnight
and in turn I made an oath,
I shall return- wisps of light
from fireflies, they cannot compare
to the white effulgence
of the man in the moon.

If a bayonet of a musket shall pierce your skin
and you fall among the wounded, lie peacefully;
if eternal slumber is now your Fate, so be it-
they may have told me, maybe not;
it was you with infallible memory, not I-
sleep among virginal blood spilt
as a war of man versus man continues.

Thee is so deeply versed in the art;
bind my wounds, eliminate my chagrin
with your practiced eyes,
calloused hands- do me this favour,
if you please;
I am afraid I cannot offer you fame and riches,
but I can offer thee my generosity;
I shall bring you rye when you so desire
and bring sinew for you clothes;
thread my wound with the needle cleansed by wine,
thank you,
I am in your debt.

Autumn;
cinnamon and the metallic scent of iron, almost ******;
leaves dipped in copper, wet bark;
when was it, when it came to be?

What in the world did you do
to be pushed from the cloudy shores of the Heavens
and fall, wings aflame, into sulphur and hellfire?

You sauntered up the shore,
onto the cliff- did you jump?
No, no, you were pushed; your mentality challenged?
We couldn't be sure.
You were pushed, he pushed you; Death.
The fall, was it delightfully terrifying?
It's not the fall that kills you- it's the landing.