With splintered iron inside wasted shrine,
Forever schemed against forlorn at home.
Like hatred mounted from iron in brine,
In sadness not unlike the silent dome.

Now I'm afraid of fireflies at lake,
Await the wounds to bloom from flutter flight.
While I walk alone for silence's sake,
And hide from ruby mud of rain-less night.

Unblind and blind much shallow graves we heaped,
With tears for some and many swallowed shouts.
While seeing too much light and light less eyed,
And stole some laugh from cheerless nights of doubt.

Unbroken, broken parts are mine alone,
Like shattered glass to make mosaic whole.

To show them mercy, I become a fiend,
A curse upon my own, by kindness sworn
Yet contrite sorrow cuts through thickest rind
And hollows out my hallowed soul in scorn.

Such dulcet words for cloying, bitter thing.
For honey-laced ash inside ear it pours.
As words of rust and ruin with worry sing,
From inside, they are veil not moat heart roars.

Like whetstone, grace and duty sharp the pain,
To make me spare the foe that slay my kin.
Each sip, each grain is marked with blooded name,
The choice of poison left for me like sin.

The world is vaster than two ends of knife,
My soul is worth more than this bitter strife.

In rolling hills like rotting, crumbling bone,
By flaying skin, the endless forests shorn,
And left to tamed and tailored pasture don,
Which many thousand bleating moths adorn.

The heather look like purple poison sharp,
Across cadaver moors with spongy flesh.
The pall from flames of moor like baleful tarp,
Like waving fur in wind wuthering mesh.

And into putrid blood and open wounds,
Where still so often everything drowns.
As fog like snowy beard on night unwinds,
With hair garrottes that strangle sight from ground.

This twisted grove that I defend alone,
Because this charnel pit is my own home.

As sun warms my shell and melts me a bit,
Like butter in pan before simmer boil,
Beneath the sand, where waves on ankles hit,
The seas unfurl and winds in jocund roil.

The salty zephyr weaves and ducks through hair,
And Gannets croon its songs like off-key bass,
With fall of tides like steps of giants bare,
And feel a thousand pins of tumbled sass.

The children batter broken shells from sea,
To hear it play its crashing, haunting tune,
At red of day, the waves renew their moxie,
Like leaping, hunting dogs in rising moon.

So, I observe the nature's glimmer lurch,
A firefly admiring stars in arch.

The final gasp of fire against the lamp,
The rattle born of crimson filling lungs,
The closing pop of gasp from silent swamp,
The rumbling ice and shrieking crack deep dug.

The lamp's mascara—pretty eyes adorn,
And now another tree in marshland stands,
And somewhere gorgeous baby girl is born,
The ice cap nursing water slips to lands.

The first of sparks beginning forest flames,
The rains of spring lead river spewing flood,
And flames of forest flower cones of pines,
And silt to soil through spring cascade is wed.

Thus, elders to younglings anguish explain,
About the future born from ancient slain.

A voice like hundred whispers spoken loud,
In land of ****** snow as it was sown,
And drifting question it forever bound,
A yew tree seeking home in ice and stone.

In forest grown of golden solid woods,
The channels frozen under ice still hum,
With eerie wails that silence songs of birds,
Through ever present, ever crooning thrum.

The voice of forest cast as mighty tool,
The flowing channels, veins in ****** snow,
The wailing question spreading bitter yule,
The yew and stone in rooted steadfast vow.

Through autumn, ice or nature's anguished blow,
Forever glowing life will always flow.

Like threading mountain path on moonless night,
Or swimming far from shore in harvest moon.
Like bargaining against the fairy might,
Or bray in hinterland at night alone.

Like morning dew licked from mountain pine,
Or running feet on sunny morning beach,
Like wintry nights with fur and sweet mulled wine,
Or snuggled sleep beyond the wakeful reach.

Like knowing death will come to claim loved ones,
Or watching broken dreams turn scrape and dust,
Like liquid joy in life of sandy dunes,
Or taking knife and leaving blood and rust.

And I pen words of peril, ease, and gloom,
So, I could experience them from my room.