I want to be your friend
but I'm too timid to speak out now
I rather think I don't know how
To utter a word not penned.

And my spoken words are like feathers
Weightless and floating about in the air,
They carry expression and meaning and care,
But they sink to the earth silently.

There's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.

The huntsman's name is Death,
His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoof's low drumming
Day and night.

You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.

And they never check or falter
For they never miss their ****;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O'er the long grey town it peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?

Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman's death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.

And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.

He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope -- because we must --
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!

A slave I was, but noble born,
A prince to be, they said in scorn,
A soldier bred, in pain and blood,
A single wave within the flood.

A war I fought, each battle won,
A thousand dead, I spared no one,
A field of spikes, my calling card,
A broken mass all burned and scarred.

A journey home, a prince at last,
A world away, that war-torn past,
A wife and son, a peace long sought,
A haven from all those I fought.

A tribute due, a price too high,
A choice to make, to fight or die,
A road to ride, a deal to make,
A slender chance I have to take.

A brother once, my noble kin,
A traitor now, not worth his skin,
A promise made, an oath he broke,
A final straw, no time to choke.

A war begun, a siege to come,
A day to plan, before the scrum,
A saviour found, a dream to dare,
A hellish choice, this curse to bear.

It was there, on that old log where she sat
under the trees cover, she talked to the moon
where she told him, I cause my own pain
as the wind quietly hummed her favorite tune.

She said,

The scars I bare are not just from the hands of others
not all are caused by the hurtful thundering rain
some are caused because I love too deeply
on that old log, she told him, I cause my own pain.

She said,

I cause my own pain, because I feel too deeply
I’ve loved when I shouldn’t have, way too much
I’ve longed for, dreamed of, desired for
just one certain, from just one…. A touch…..

She said,

To the tearing moon, I cause my own pain…….


The moon said, to Her

It was there, on that old log where you sat
while the wind hummed, your favorite song
that I touched you, ever so gently with light
to lead you in the direction, where you belong.

He said to her…

I touched you ever so gently with my light
to lead you to a heart, like you’ve never known
one, who like you has loved and felt deeply
who knows pain but also, the love you have shown.

He said to her…

Tis true you’ve longed for, dreamed of, desired for
but you’ve also given, and loved so very much
I’ve touched you, ever so gently with my light
so that you can feel, just one certain, from just one….

His touch….

I tend to love
broken things.
And sometimes, I get broken
by the things I love.