flickering candle
casts reflections on stained glass -
will-'o-the-wisps dance

there are holes in the wall
and water's gushing through:
to drown burning metal souls,
to make them all anew

synapse overload -
sensations and colors running riot
as the world reclaims the burnt-out husks
(never have any eyes seen such beautiful sparks, baby)
dissolving to the dark
while cleansing water permeates each casing

cybermen walked here
the boom-boom-boom-boom of their steps could be heard
echoing through streets where children once played;
now empty silver shells are scattered on the ground
and
a lone man stands over them,
hiding his face from the world

grace is not simply kindness
or smooth motions
inscribed with arms and legs
as the dancer flows across the floor

she constantly astounds me -
her heartbeat (which I am occasionally lucky enough to feel beneath my fingers) sending life pulsing through her veins,
her laughter (drawn by witty comments) causing my heart to race as well,
her cheeks which flush rose-petal pink when exhilaration sends lightning down her spine

grace can never be explained
or planned -
merely loved wholly or
not at all

Softfoot moves behind her prey -
no sound.
He stands oblivious
gazing into the distance
between his soul and Sovngarde:
in short,
*closer than he thinks.

A thousand steps cut into the mountain
stone buried in places
under ever-present snow

Dovahkiin walks -
purposeful strides to carry them through
fog and snow and fire,
turning not aside from their path
lest they hear laughter in
the thunder.

The Way of The Voice demands not loud mouths,
but strong speech.