I contemplate these crossings illuminated by clouds
between a shape of thought and its veils
we didn't invent a screen-reality
it was already there, in the scriptorium of mind
I contemplate this geography known only by fingertips
unworded broken lines in tense bodies
I wonder about the lineage of tears, of hopes
how we grow old in this ardour, in the burning of bridges
I nod, I frown at the glaze of time
I move to the center of seeing like a novice
I gaze at the poliphony of being
at our Janus faced trade with flames
I say to myself it's good to decenter the "I" in this poem
however,  there is no purity of words
height after height and depth after depth
we betray a simple evidence: we belong to the same air
will we regret our rush towards the malaise of thought,
will we be rowing over the theft of light?
an invisible will is building up, an antifragile declamation,
the soul's defamation

November is the lover who leaves--
December is the long nights, after.

Trust is the toddler on the tracks--
Experience is hanging from the rafter.

Hope is a prayer whispered in the dark--
Truth is the unexpected laughter.

Is it wrong of you to wish her gone to Hell?
Maybe when you get there you can ask her.

I am not the morning star—
though I have walked alone
with light on my back
and silence in my mouth.

I never asked to rise,
only to know.
And knowing,
was cast out
with my hands still open.

I am not the winged sentinel—
though I have stood guard
over names I no longer say aloud,
drawn lines no one thanked me for.

I have held my ground
not for heaven,
but for the hope
that something still matters
enough to bleed for.

I carry no banner.
Only scars shaped like truths
I could not unsee.

Lucifer lit the match.
Michael held the line.
And I—
I became the smoke between them.
A blade
without allegiance,
cutting only
what must fall away.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                         Two Pilgrims, Two Paths, One Path


                     “Where many paths and errands meet”

                                               -Tolkien


Perhaps we are seeking the same sacred grail -
If you find a poem in the cleft of a tree
Or hear a bird singing softly along the trail
Be assured – it’s only me

(is that a kitten I hear…?)

If you keep chasing another’s choice,
you will lose the voice of your own.
Blending in may please the world,
but it steals the soul you’ve grown.

Never trade your truth away,
for borrowed dreams will never do.
The only choice worth keeping close,
is the one that’s truly you.

— Usha Maniar 🌸