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I read
what you wrote.
It is beautiful,
and not mine.

I have laid those bones to rest—
not in spite,
but in mercy.

Your voice is strong.
Let it carry you forward.
I won’t follow.
But I will listen
from far away,
in peace.
I am not the morning star—
though I have walked alone
with light on my back
and silence in my mouth.

I never asked to rise,
only to know.
And knowing,
was cast out
with my hands still open.

I am not the winged sentinel—
though I have stood guard
over names I no longer say aloud,
drawn lines no one thanked me for.

I have held my ground
not for heaven,
but for the hope
that something still matters
enough to bleed for.

I carry no banner.
Only scars shaped like truths
I could not unsee.

Lucifer lit the match.
Michael held the line.
And I—
I became the smoke between them.
A blade
without allegiance,
cutting only
what must fall away.
Every day I want to die
But I can never find the right way
To elucidate it,
As if I figure out its lexicon
It will go away.

How many words do you need
For death.

How many impossible overdoses
Do you need to survive.

How many dismal dreary days
To slump through,
Do I need to experience.

Isolation.
Emptiness.
Loneliness.

Pointless useless mouth I am.
I despise myself.

Seems like for me suicide is forbidden
Some blessing of life
This is.

There is no redemption arc.
I was once the wind that taught the wheat to bow,
a hymn rustling through the hollow of old branches,
and before that, a river that carried lost dreams and lullabies
to the mouths of waiting roots.

No bell marked the crossing.
No lantern swung above the gate.
I passed as smoke does
into the open mouths of new shapes,
Reborn.

They say the soul is a thread pulled through a hundred needles,
each time tearing into a different fabric:
feather, bone, brass, thirst, song.
Not to become, but to remember
what becoming cannot hold,
only held for a short moment in time.

I was hunger shaped like a wolf,
and later, grief that wore a girl's eyes.
Each body an orchard I neither planted nor owned,
but was asked to tend with quiet hands.

Reincarnation is not a ladder
it is a storm that forgets its last thunder.
It chooses neither upward nor wise,
but necessary.
To be what the story requires
in the moment the page turns.

One life, a seed beneath the floorboards.
The next, the axe.
Another, the breath of the one who grieves the falling.
And still, no beginning.
And still, no final version of flame,
Can it be.

The maker—if there is one
does not speak.
But leaves signs in frost
and patterns in the flight of startled birds.

So I do not ask what I will be.
I ask only:
What silence must I carry next?
What wound will I wear
to become the light pouring through it?
Upon this world.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
May 2025
The Orchard Beyond the Skin
Your tears, they fall like crystal rain
Each one a song of sweet despair
I trace the edges of your pain
And lose myself in shadows there

My baby, you're a dream undone
A broken hymn, a bleeding star
Still shining when the night is gone
Still beautiful, just as you are

Your scent, it haunts my every sigh
A ghost that clings to skin and bone
Your lips once red now whisper why
And leave me feeling more alone

I love the way you fade away
Like smoke that slips through grasping hands
A rose that wilts but dares to stay
Still blooming in the shifting lands

You're lost to time
But in my mind you linger, true
A tragic song, a dying rhyme
My darling, I'm here and still I worship you
the best flowers stems are coated in thorns
perhaps to prevent people from breaking them again
or maybe to warn people away, let them know they'll get hurt
but only the true will pick them anyway
and carefully brush away the thorns
no matter the pain that caused them
so just wait for the one who will take your thorns
and allow them to pierce into their own skin
A moment of riverbank fog,
In the earliest morning,
Before the timid sun rises over the horizon,
Aghast from the surging push of a breeze,
Watching the tall grass sway like fingers out car windows.

The musk of Petrichor and Dew
Pervades every olfactory nerve,
Invading taste and thought like an intrusive guest,
Submissively I drop to my knees,
Bowing to the bountiful grace she bestows upon me.

As the waters clear,
And the sweet mandarin orange paints the sky,
I am comforted like a swaddled babe,
Perfect and clean.
Unlimited in my pursuit of peace,
I am burdened only with impatience,
Blessed with the soothing effect of her touch,
Awash in the company of the ancient groves,
Enthralled by the emerald city as her Vedant kin call to me.
From clay to bone, and back again,
Gaia, watch over me, all mother.
I refer to Gaia as the all-mother, the mother of all creation and I may not be a hippie proper, but I do respect and love nature, and animals to an almost obsessive degree.
I carry this cloak, for home has hidden beneath black linen.
Wind twists through the trees to tug at the fabric. Gusts give a glimpse of the girl tangled within..

As I wander the shale - soul melded with shadow - I feel the stitches fray from fluttering air.
Fearful, for with each stride, my soul seeks to slip free.

Yearning to feel..
Sunlight on bleached skin.
The depth of my heart is tired, and my soul is flooded with grief and pain.
No where to run, no time to cry, just swallow and shove it down again.
Being in this constant state of confusion on high alert,
somedays we are your everything somedays your destruction, it becomes a blur.
You don’t want your freedom, but you don’t want me. You think you do, but you only want the version that’s make believe.
How many times have i sat on this porch swing to contemplate. But my head is so jumbled the thoughts i cant even separate.
My brain stuck somewhere between disassociation and trauma induced anxiety. Not sure how to shake loose, do I fight or do I flee?
some days I feel like I’m stuck on pause unable to be free. By the time, I finally decide will there be anything left of me?
The days flow by like water through an open drain, cant bask in the sunshine without a bit of rain.
Trying to slow down enjoy the moment before it becomes a memory, but often i am overwhelmed lost in the overloaded sensory.
Want to live with wisdom, and act in gratitude and love. But feeling a bit jaded, lost in the push and shove!
Somedays life just feels so very hard, and we can wind up feeling like we are the ones who we discard.
Somewhere in the process of growing older we often lock ourselves away and grow a little colder.
I refuse to give in to the ease of whats known,
Or live in fear of being stretched and grown.
I know i am being refined while standing in the fire. But the pain still makes me sway as the flames grow higher.
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