The giants,
They fight.

They live their life blind,
Blind to those below.
Blind to the fights we have fought,
Blind to the pain we keep,
And yet they say they know.

We speak of what we think,
We speak of what we know.
We tell of how we take the blow.
They listen not.
And yet they say they know.

So we hide.
We hide the things we feel,
We hide the things we think.
Hide the wounds we dont want seen.
Let them think they know.

So inside it stays.
We fight and it grows.
So we grow and grow.
We are the giants.
Now we know.

The fights we fought,
Those we did forget.
So we forget and fight,
Fight and forget.
No one really knows.

a pause, rested against the mill hopper
behind the glass of an eye

these empty mornings
climb through a mindful shell- as passes a gust by bare branch

distant looming giants wade freely tantamount to possibilities
in the house of both existence and not
they flow before us like gods

It stood among no giants, no towers, no mountains.
Heedless to the wind, scattered without waving stalks and rusted leaves,
it chose to fall where it could not.
Jaded, perhaps, but not without sterling hands crafted to bellow.
A smattering of elbows chastised the woodpeckers pecking.
Ephemeral? Beautiful? Sober? Lassitude?

It fell among no gorges, no ravines, no swale.
Heedless to the rain, swamped in a dell without sliver streams,
it swelled up above the ratty woven sails.
Coarse, perhaps, but feather flew, vying for sky.
A copse of whitebark pine pillaged no battalions.
Mauve? Tender? Empyrean? Redolent?

It pattered among no small sorts, no ant hills, no chambers.
Heedless to the duke, sabotaged without sword, spear, stone,
it swallowed a hive of rabbits in no fields.
Desultory, perhaps, but not with quintessential ripples bent in space.
A harrowing panacea flourished in spindles of florid bristles.
Sempiternal? Susurrous? Honeyed? Irascible?

It churned among no whirlpools, no pots, no frosting.
Heedless to the maelstrom, sluicing in a myriad of slanted lanterns,
it chose to lure where it could not beguile.
Laconic, perhaps, but not without furtive gallows smoldering.
A candelabra of viridian mire spies spied genteel dragonflies.
Enormity? Enmity? Vestigial? Switchback?

It stood among nothing.
It stood enervated.  
It stood.
It.

I wish there was a magical ground
   where centaurs would heal
   and to protect the land
   some giants to surround
   Thestrals as a traveling mean
   Golems to follow my command
   sphinxes to fulfill my demand
   some sylphs gatherings
   and mermaids to fill the air
   with their melodious voice
   unicorns with their freedoms
   to bring the brightness to this world

We wanted to be bulletproof
MC's with M-16's and enough money to buy our freedom from the very same blocks we bragged about in our verses
We weren't hypocrites, we were just literate in the language of loss
We weren't rich, but we knew some people were and that they seemed to laugh a lot more often.
I don't laugh all that often anymore..
I'm not sure when we forgot that we were giants