The tawny Daylilies
of orange and red,
are suspended like star bursts
above the carpeted bed.
They hang like streetlights
over the green splendor,
and illuminate the envious riot,
so tender.
The tangle of fronds
though they reach for the sky,
will crane their heads vainly
although they must try
to attain the heights
and the lofty glory,
that their progeny mount
to tell their sweet story.
The blooms burst like fireworks
coloring the heavens above,
and broadcast their fragrant
message of love.
To all who would listen
to their honeyed-song,
heard with their hearts
though it wouldn't last long.
For the Lily did know
that her day would soon end,
her time was but brief
for her message to send.
So she bloomed so brightly
with all of her might,
and swayed with the wind
though it gave her such fright.
For the glory of others
for those down below,
who had lifted her up
to make such a show.
And that was the story of love
that she told,
the heart's sacrifice
is greater than gold.

I love this!
Being a sacrifice,
Father, I love this!
Oh, thank you,
thank you so much
for not asking me
if it’s alright to cut open my flesh,
thank you, thank you!
It’s such a wonderful feeling,
ah! It hurts -
thank you!
God is so merciful,
perhaps I’ll get into Heaven
with this offering -
what do you mean it’s all for you?
What do you mean I’m just a commodity?
What do you mean my flesh is yours to give?

Father!
I do not want this anymore,
I do not want to be a sacrifice
if I will not reap the rewards -
god, it burns!
The knife cuts me open
like Sunday dinner;
how is this not mine?
How is my flesh not mine to own?

Father, please!
I am begging you,
ease up, stop cutting,
I’ll repent, I’ll be yours,
I’ll open myself up
if it’s what you command,
but do not let my flesh
be given to someone else.

No! Nobody will know sacrifice
like I know it,
intimately and forever -
I am not yours!
My blood is not yours to give,
but you tie me down,
and god!
God!
It hurts -
father, Father, please, it hurts.

Shuffle towards the marrow of my bones, Abraham.
Know my eyes when you burn into them.
I am your sacrifice,
but never willingly.

He would let me break every bone in his body
Just for me to let him love me

But then I'd break his heart

prostitutes
who walk the streets
for the relief of men
unhappy at home
check out girls
at the till of empty promises
waiting to be discovered
and whisked away
young ones in yoga pants
jogging for a better body
and a better future
counting the steps
to where they could’ve
been today
the ones pushing prams
who are too late to corrupt
but you’d still give it a go
the tempting schoolgirls
in their uniformed uniformity
who’s radiant faces separate them
from their peers
they are all someone’s daughter
somebody’s pride and joy
they are all loved by fathers
who would lay down their lives
for them
who have made sacrifices
for them
and would again
precious
missed
special
remember this
as you glance a lustful eye
in their direction

Your heart rests in the palm of your father's sacrifice.
Your breath rests in the nostalgic wind that passes by him
When he remembers his past and reflects on your future.
Your colours run down the lines of your mother's smile,
Whenever she raises her hands to the sky,
Praying for you and a little more time,
Because she left her beating heart back home,
To become foreign and unknown only so you could grow.

Their complexions are painted with fatigue,
Because when you're sound asleep,
they run toward bordered walls,
so that when you wake up in the morning,
There will be open doors at your feet.

When a nostalgic wind passes by them,
They'll tell you stories of their childhood,
And they'll leave each word,
With a taste of reminiscence,
A hint of stolen years reflected in the teardrops,
That rest in the corner of their eyes,
And yet when they look towards you,
In seconds your reflection overshadows everything they once used to dream.

All for you...

They warned me to watch for my hands because
I might cut them picking up the broken pieces of others.
They warned me to watch for my eyes because
after seeing their problems my sight would lose all it’s colours.

I believed good people were like candles
as they’d burn themselves out to give others light
I believed good people were like the dark of the night
as they'd be there to help the stars shine bright

My hands may be criss crossed with cuts and scars,
my eyesight dim, and in need of glasses
my body may be patched and riddled with burn marks
and I may have fallen into the depths of darkness

So often I believed that no one was there to help the helper

It was hard, and the map of 3rd degree burns and nicks
are a testament to my journey, my daily crucifix
But I think I’ve found the balance, the fine fine line
between madness and sanity. Between helping others and myself

I’ve learnt to shine brightly for others
like the moon, both light and dark
whilst not setting myself on fire
and still allowing others to shine stark

My eyes still see the wonder in the world,
my hands still craft joy, still tinker with happiness.
To you my friend, if you're anything like me,
know it's all worth it, and you will be helped, you will be found.

Love is only beautiful, when you fall into the right pit. Pit of unending sacrifice.