I finally am letting myself be free from the thoughts of wanting you back. I realized what I wanted isn't what you are now, but the one you were, when you were with me And that is gone for a long time now.
they stormed out the corners, the screamers, the signs, all black. but no longer occult. i tried to walk past all the mourners in lines, but my heart was my pillar of salt. can heaven forgive me that i could not come? please carry my soul to your flame! i’ll tend to my garden and pray you reach home — but i know that it isn’t the same. though clouds round you gather, each knight noble stands; the rain is the least of the cost. o sable crusaders, my hand in your hands, i will march with the ghosts of the lost.
Note: This was written on the anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law in the Philippines in 1972. There was a demonstration at my university, so that we may never forget: Marcos is not a hero.
dark’s peering into day, wonder when the dew’ll lay; time’s slowed as skies turn static, least the hours are less erratic. orange lamps glow outside a misted window; earthy rain’s falling hard but fire’s lit and sky is starred. sometimes mist deceives the eyes: seen silent figures’ quick demise. ocean spits over the pier, almost as grey as the Wear; lighthouse shines it’s steely beam, illuminating the horizon’s seam. heaven’s sealed with wrought dull iron, far away seems unearthly Zion; harvest moon’s not as vague: illuminating an eight-legged plague. crows spectate above and below, you’d be surprised what they know; change leers at every bend, nostalgia seems an only friend. the veil is thinner than before, perhaps open is another door; harvest season’s coming to an end, fields of Elysium this way wend.