This is the biggest lie
                                           The mirror told me;

Don't speak.
                                                          ­                                                   Why?
People can hurt you when they
know too much.
                                                           ­                                           Will they?
Can they?
                                                           ­                                         Yes, when?
Yesterday.
                                                ­                                I don't remember that.
Because you think you know it
all, stupid boy.
                                                            ­                                               I don't.
Good, because you don't, you're
wrong. That's right.
                                                          ­ I think I need to speak to someone
But you have me; I know
everything


                                             Mirror, mirror
                                On the – communal - wall
                            Where strangers **** and ****
                             And always avoid eye contact


There's power in silence
                                                    But then how will I find things out for
                                                                ­     myself, if I am quiet always?
Know the power of knowledge,
ledge of knowing
                                                         ­                What if I fall off this ledge?
You think too highly of yourself,
you're shallow it won't hurt.
                                                           ­                                                  Right.
Or is it wrong, I told you to be quiet and you still speak.

                                  Nobody listens to silence
                                                - Quiet **** -
                                      Tie the noose for one's
                                               - Own neck -
                                Maybe the small knife from
                                              - The kitchen -
                              To carve on flesh, escape from
                                              - My skin -
                            I want to keep it safe, not scarred
                                            - Not always -
                                         Fatal, just curious.
                                  -Does that make sense?-
                        It's not real. Let me ask someone I think
                                                -I trust-

Stop dreaming!
                                                       ­                                I can't control that.
You said this was your body,
you're control?
                                                        ­                              But that's different.
See, you're not always right!
                                                          ­                   It's not bad to be wrong,
                                                                ­                                    sometimes.
Then why are you still speaking?
                                                       ­                      I'd like to lie down now.
Okay.

                              What sacrifice will I leave to the beast?
                    “Kind can be the inflicted, and also the ignorant.
                       Gracious can be the dark; or else too the light.
                              Afraid are the lost, and so too the able.
                                                        Bli­ss is real”.

But you aren't kind!
                                                           ­                                Neither are you.
Gracious? Look at your posture.
                                                        ­                                           I'm looking.
Are you telling me I am old?
                                                            ­                                       Sometimes.
Filth. You are ignorant.
                                                       ­       I am going to light a candle now.

There is a church I walk past everyday. It is orange, not like the fruit, but like the sand when the sun is half way between this land and another. When the skin of water is cool, and not blue like the crayon drawings' of a child. Sometimes I want to knock on the heavy, mahogany door of the church. Not for permission to enter; I want to know how thick the door is. Orange with dark spots, that is how I remember the church. Points to the sky, and I would need to take a detour to see it close. I am always late, maybe one day I will be later. You said I could just wake up earlier; I told you I will not do that.

You must love yourself,
look how many mirrors are in
here, ha! Just kidding. This is cool.
                                                        Ha,­ I know. I love and hate mirrors.
Really?
                                                ­        They're tender and tough. Depends
                                                        who's looking. Does that make
                                                         sense? I want to
                                                        say more about them, but there's
                                                        not enough words.
I've never thought of a mirror
like that before.
                                                         And I've never thought that I can
                                                         stop thinking that way about
                                                         mirrors.
Do you want some more water?
                                                         There's no more in the fridge, but
                                                         let me get some from the bathroom
                                                         sink. It's better from there.
Don't worry, I'll go. You're tired.

Neither quick or slow, but delicately, he walks to the bathroom. I hear the door open, the light switch on, a pause. He walks, runs the sink; I can hear the glass filling. It is a small apartment, and the walls are weak. He turns the tap off, the flick of darkness and I can hear his footprints returning. He hands me the glass; I know it is cold before I touch the glass because of the condensation. His fingerprints are there, and so too are mine. He relaxes his shoulder against mine, presses his lip to my ear. His breathing is calm, like the water at the beach. Then that small chuckle, I hear him, exhale. Hard and protective, like the door of the church. Stable and seductive, I know he is going to tell me his witness, or a joke.

                     You don't have mirrors in your bathroom.

The mists that part,
  By Bride's Day light,
Are mists between the worlds,
They open wide,
  The gates of night,
And allow things to pass both ways,
What died before,
  Comes forth once more,
The serpent's wings are spread,
On Hallow's Eve,
  That sacrifice,
Begins the year again,
Forth from the well,
  Between the worlds,
Scaled form returns once more,
A new year dawns,
  In dark moon light,
And all begins once more,
Upon her forge,
  New year is wrought,
By hammer and by flame,
The raven's call,
  The hope of all,
As she forges the year again,
Now the births,
  In springtime snows,
In cold and solemn moons,
Keeper of Ways,
  Builder of Paths,
Takes now the regency,
Misrule is done,
  That tide is turned,
Bride's Time has come again,
The Trouble Moon,
  It parts and passes,
The Lost Moon begins again.
And awakened now,
  The serpent old,
Begins a journey home,
As they open wide,
  The gates of night,
And allow things to pass both ways,
For the mists that part,
  By Bride's Day light,
Are mists between the worlds.
~Mists Between the Worlds, a Candlemas poem by Lorekeeper, February 3, 2017

the life you have hitherto Refined
whence love shall wax and wane
cannot know Hephaestus's grief
for you and he are not the same.

now Steel your restless heart,
and from it, Forge the demon's bane
lest your senseless grief, in Fires
of boldest Mettle, wrong you all the same.

He is a tinkerer.
Through his eyes he sees only cogs and turning gears,
His fingers, they feel only bolts and nuts and screws,
He's doesn't understand her, he doesn't get her tears,
To him her sentiments, they are nothing if not new,
So he tries to fix her. He pieces the broken shells of her heart together,
Together the shells weigh a pound, but individually they float like a feather,
He glues and welds her heart together with his mixtures of metals,
But he doesn't understand that these shells are like rose bud petals,
Delicately they flow, and the slightest touch makes them break,
But in time, they bloom prettier than a sunset on a shimmering lake,
No, he doesn't understand. So he welds and forges the pieces together,
He is a tinkerer.

Fling yourself at his feet and leave your fate in his sole grey eye
His tree was of the world
but his secrets were his alone    
He wasn't an All Father
His wine was spiced with blood    
Men know the price of madness
but what of boys
Left to shape their bodies in the forge
For some, there had been no hammer
Except the one they held      
No water to cool their molten steel
Except for the well they found
But the fire was fed all day long      
Liquid metal writing on the surface spilling into one shape and out of another
Over and over
No weapon can forge itself
But **** it
I'll try