I used to be hues of yellow,
Green, blue, purple, and red.
With the sky as my soul
Feeling vibrant and bold
Like the stories I spun in my head.

A girl made of stars
Is bound to burn out
If her light can no longer be fed.
Learned the rules, learned the game,
Then I scrapped my old ways,
Sinking in water that I used to tread.

Your face was a charcoal portrait,
So I touched it to just see you smile.
But I smudged you all up and I’m covered in gray,
And the light, it retreats when I’m in the sun’s rays,
And I feel like the night everyone wishes was day—

But I take a deep breath.

And I find that old spark.

Just to realize that it never even went away.

The same rose, still ablaze scorching red,  
A ****** from realms yet untread,  
That unfolds upon the ancient, earthen bed—  
But heed the thorn; this way one cannot tread.

Every morning the nightingale sings her song,  
Leaps into melody, ere the day grows long.  
Down the moon’s open eye, once strong,  
To unlock the door, one must belong.

In the quietude, beneath the moon’s aged grace,  
Maybe lies a key forged in shadow,
The sun slides down, lights a candle at a silent pace.  
Who claims this boon, who dares to embrace,  
Must know the rose’s fire, the nightingale’s chase.

We, these wing'd
Wicked things
Filth and fiends
Fearless and free
Terrors that soar
Waking you
From fevered
Dreams
Mayhem
On a whim
Fugitive as
The wind
Christened
In sin
Do you truly
Know your
Wolves within?

We are you
The madness
That lurks
Within your
Deepest animal
Mind; begging
To be free

Take all your taxes and see if you aren't able to get more done with them
Then those that represent you.
Do those that do, really represent you
Or do they resent you?
And secretly tread with scorn?
If you truly want change, seek an office
Grab a gavel
Do your part

This is where our course had led:
On your bed,
In my head,
Your errant thoughts were read:
Why is it we so dread
Joining ranks with deathless dead
When they their mortal cares have fled?:
These thoughts you gave to me unsaid
As our blood was shed
Beautiful, crimson red:
To new horizons tread

A voice is heard often
Like a lion roaring in a den.
He wants to come out,
Roar once again, slake his drought.

But another voice is heard again,
It rebukes the lion and closes the den.
This voice sounds like that of a man
Who wants to do all, but has no plan.

The day isn’t too far
When the tumult will turn into a war.
Face of lion with a body of man, I see,
None is ready to set the other free.

This war of the voices begins with the sunrise,
And ends at the moment I close my eyes.
This is the way where monsters tread,
Head’s alive, while the heart’s dead.

I'll never walk in your footsteps.
                         because you walked

that path and it was personal to you.

I may shadow you, as I take wonderment
          in the delicate breath of each moment

you trod upon the soil.

Showing that for some, we will never tread
               upon others imprints.

But we will not look above, but always
                     below to see that some paths
are worth following,
      stepping side by side to others life.

Make a path anew, follow the footsteps
                of others you look down too.

But every path is unique, no path trodden
                   is ever the same in life.

It's not a wonder the night is more peaceful than the day.

All the loudsnout pigs have hit the hay, and the wolves may come out to paw and play, pale fur shining under the moonlight, without a sinning sunbeam's glare to darken his gay prouncing.