The key to new destinations
Is nowhere in sight.
I must forage for that which will fulfill.
And I do not know where my efforts will lead,
Or if they will pay off in any good time.
I know none of this, but I do not stop.
We play in the nighttime like nightingales,
Soaring around, whispering secrets the moon keeps,
Tapping into a frequency we cannot permeate just yet,
Nibbling at the edges, trying to loosen the threads,
Improving with persistence on our art,
Building a nest with patient diligence,
A quaint lifestyle in the glow of the stars.
Some days I see you looking at them and wondering
Why you can’t be among your own,
Why you can’t have your own orbit,
You deserve it,
But I don’t.
I’m far too cynical to be powered on dreams.
That’s why my humble spirit must stay in the lowlands,
And why, if you love me, you sacrifice angelic realms
And must continue working in the branches,
Neglected nightingales.

time is gold,
every second is crucial and
we’re running out of hours
but i’m not gonna rush
because for you,
i’m willing to sacrifice
—a long time ago,
i already chose to stop my time.

A Sunday sacrifice condensed
Golden amber sprites compete
Cries of life echo their last bequest
As prongs and tongs poke
Black bars sizzle on cold dead flesh

Sweetened smoke invokes
the demon's first bite
Mind controlled spoke of rites
The decree of three hundred degrees
Old and new viewed
on separate pews
Charcoal bright a dusty white

Rules do vary with belief in
the division of meat
Breathe in look up
Give thanks to the energy received
Respect both life and death in defeat

There is no disagreement,
no mutiny, no desertion
Only a quiet acknowledgement
as the men get back to work

The signalman returns to his signal,
Throughout the day, he will never stop
relaying the events.

The sound of the oncoming horde grows louder,
Rifles crack, The horde is upon them,
assaulting the outer wall

The disciplined fire of the Sikh troops,
breaks the first wave of the tribesmen.
But they are like the sea, rolling back,
and rushing forward with even greater strength.

Bodies drop all along the killing field.
in front of the signalling post.
The sound of twenty rifles,
roaring against ten thousand.

But this time, it's not enough to break the charge
Shells pepper the rough hune walls
One of the signal company falls dead

Then the enemy is at the wall
Climbing, clambering up, determined.
A brief melee: Knives and swords, bayonets and rifle butts

They break the wave again, But this time,
There's Sikh blood in the dust, under the baking sun
The bodies of the fallen are carried into the inner wall
Each loss is a friend, one of only 21 holding the station.
and that number is dropping

Shouts are heard from outside the wall,
The tribe's leaders are promising the Sikhs
wealth, safety and positions of importance
All they had to do was abandon their post.

No man budges.

It’s astrology.
Read the stars
in my eyes
Hand me the key
And I’ll chain my own wrists
Slipping in and out
Of our own lives
Like shadows.
I can’t breathe underwater.

In the darkness
I reflect the sky
In the midst of this war
I’m sacrificial
It’s written on my face
And the palms of my hands
My fortune
The belief I will save you

My eyes are tired
But you can see me
Dreaming your dreams,
Drifting in the undertow.
Everything has changed.
I’ll drown under these grey skies
A kiss of life
Under the weight of the world

in a world that's hellbent on division
you might just be my flavour of strange;
and if love is a war,
you can have my allegiance.
if we we burn, we burn bright;
if we die, then we die
holding hands at the edge.
like two planets on course for collision,
we trade endless stagnation for change;
and whatever the cost,
we're not bound by the limits.
if we live, we live now;
if we die, then we die
holding hands at the edge.

You need a soul to blame,
To put on your causes of adversity.
So let me offer you mine;
I might drown
Under the tedious current
But at least,
You will float.

The wild unforgiving landscape,
The perilous heat and,
The untamed sun.
A fools conquest the land was.

Dawn comes to the very boundary of the empire,
standing on the uncontrolled border.
A string of forts stretch long and thin,
covering the horizon with their power.

Dawn breaks as the men wash and meditate,
affixing there turban to begin the day.
Sensing a looming threat in the air,
the Sikhs man their posts.

Someone tells a joke to break the tension,
everybody laughs, but the feeling remains.
The lookout shouts about an enormous mass moving on the horizon,
The twenty-one takes their defensive positions.

At least 10 thousand tribesmen,
once there allies but now, in full retaliation,
descending on the forts with only the signalling post,
standing in there way.

The unit is piling up ammunition,
barring the gates to there tiny compound.
The signalman sends a tiny message,
"Can you send help?",
Only with a slight delay, "no".

The men in the unit gathered around their commander,
Ishar Singh, knowing fully that they could make a break for it,
Ishar then tells them calmly about what they are already,
in their hearts, are ready for.

They will stay and,
They will fight.

They will delay the oncoming tribesmen,
as long as possible.
They will buy the forts the time they need,
to call the reinforcements.