There was a time of peace
Now a distant memory
These battles have left me wounded
Alone and scarred
Here lying on this ground
In the end, I realize
I was not against any other
I was only at war with myself

I see your heartbeat in every man
and I can hear your mind
even though you hide
behind the sun.
You disappear
into places of mystery    
where you survive
inside your fun.

You see yourself
as the lost make believe
and leave no room for reality
to ever be the same.
All those bridges you are burning
have you drowning
inside of your
own shame.

You want to vanish
into a spiraling truth
and be heard
by your feelings
while reaching out.  
There is no such thing as honor
when sitting on a velvet seat
where you only shout.

Your tears will soon pass
when you think
of the anticipation
of the dreams you had
in your cradle.  
Harmony breathes in a quiet breath
lasts forever
if it is able.

Growing up I discovered that it is innate
In human nature
To find, seek, or beg for affection.
I stayed silent in order to watch those around me:
Some were good at capturing attention
Like on a warm summer night
And children and running around with glass jars
Procuring fireflies that shine like precious gems.
These children had the talent of keeping the fireflies
Dazzling for days.
Some sought after the coveted attention,
With their baited fishing poles in hand,
They patiently waited in the middle of the lake
And held onto their prize when caught
Until it died when they would go and fish for a new one.
Perhaps a longer, bigger, heavier, more valuable catch.
Some are light, ethereal,
Like a subtle perfume you can only smell
When you are mere inches away from the wearer.
They are sweet and not too persistent in their ways.
I continued to watch
And place people in these categories.
What they all in common, though,
Was selling their precious:
The fireflies, the fish, the perfume.
I looked to myself,
What did I have to sell? To offer?
Anything at all?
Surely I wasn’t as skilled as the lightning bug trapper
Or as patient as the fisherman
Or as fragrant as the perfume-wearer.
Instead, I was the girl
Who would admire the stars for all they are,
But not try to keep one;
Who would live in the now
Rather than feebly attempting to move my watch
Back a few years.
It was then I realized,
My love is not for sale.

I followed the line of smoke at dawn:
Smoke from ebbing fires that
burned all night, leading to
some unknown end
past the horizon: eagles
circled above and crows
sliced the hum of the wind,
as I walked on,
shadows
of a buried life emerged:
Laughter, cries of joy, who is that
running after severed kites?
Colours splashed in merry
summers; that corner refuge
hiding during scary fights -
Memories like a river
roaring out of the gorge,
ruins
of a buried life,
emerged out of the horizon
beyond the line of smoke,
figures that retreated into shadows
and corners beyond approach,
memories of buried, forgotten times...

Holy yards of hallowed houses of prayer
rise in sublime chants and hymns
at this hour of the blessed dawn
when auspicious shades of light
grace the scabbards of swords
long sheathed and covered in shadows
of figures on the stained glasses

A divided land of long used to darkness
engulfing, rejoices: a saviour rises,
a hero who can unite and heal:
purple robe and the rag, Roman
and Celt: the long suffering realm
finds solace at last in order and justice;
A quest brews, of sacred chalices

In the noble hearts of faithful knights:
Alas, a tragedy in the shadows,
whither, famed Artorius, wise?
Hades schemes to ****** away
your Persephone to Annfwyn afar:
No mortal wounds could fell you alive,
But this, you carry on to Avalon.

There is a song that skins remember.
A line that resounds in silences.
A form the heart revisits
in fervid recollections.

That you must not speak,
that you must not speak.

Silences can ****.
No need to ask Crusoe.

Stars that explode in suicide:
From aeons of tortuous silences,
from distant companions,
silently cold.

Yes, our silences talk. Sorry, this
was not how it was supposed to be.
Strains of there we go again.

Gulfs of empty spaces between
silent vales, that birth the
mourning winds.

Murmurs leap out like dolphins
out of our silences.

Waiting to hear each other. Past
the dirge at the grave of my errors.