BOOK I

S.  Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft ***** rose and fell.

S.  Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. "Why do you wind no horn?' she said
"And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
"We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'

"My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'

"What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
"I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'

"Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'

"I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
"And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'

"O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, "It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

S.  Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.

Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
"Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

"Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
"A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
"O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
"Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.

"Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, "God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes:  "Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose:  "You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins:  you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.

S.  Patrick. Tell On.

Oisin. Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I tutned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, "His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among thc fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds



























































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Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

"An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, ""Unjust, unjust';
And ""My speed is a weariness,' falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'

#######
BOOK II
#######

NOW, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
"Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers

Early Sunday morning.
Brisk wind, no jacket.
Waiting for a taxi,
shivers in my bones.
Shameful looks from my mother -
she thinks I stopped out last night.

Monday afternoon.
The whole school knows.
Taunts, laughter, names
as I walk through the corridors -
isn't school supposed to be safe?
I see the boys
- I hate them, I hate them, I hate them -
feel ***** rise through my throat
and the blood in my brain thicken.
Hear words that cut like knives:
"****", "*****",
"I can't believe she had a foursome".
I cannot walk into the canteen,
it's full of piercing lion eyes
searching for their prey;
me.
I am called into the head of years office,
heavy footsteps echoing with sorrow
as I enter.
Concerned eyes break through my skin
creating bullet holes in my fragility.
The words I couldn't face
finally enter the wind.
"Was it consensual?"
No, no, no, no.
Cheeks wet with cascading tears.
The truth finally said,
spoken aloud like an oracle.
I wait for fifty minutes.
Fluorescent police uniforms march the halls.
And my mother.
She's crying, she knows,
she hugs me.
Tells me she's sorry.
In the small back office
surrounded by teachers and police and my mum,
words are exchanged.
I see moving lips but cannot hear the words.
My senses are drowned by the event leading up to this.
They gave me a name
in the bedroom that night.
"It", like an object.
Unhuman, unfeeling.

The same Monday evening.
Next thing I know I'm at home.
Brought back to consciousness
with an assertive knock at the front door.
More uniforms, more police.
Mum explains that they have to take my statement.
I panic, cry -
I've done a lot of that today.
I hide some things from them;
I'm too ashamed.
They have cameras on their vests,
tiny eyes watching me,
recording the moment I recall my trauma.
My body hurts,
but my brain and my heart are in agony.
They ask me to take my clothes off.
How can they ask me that?
Explanations are given to my mother,
her face conveys the emotions that I'm too numb to feel.
It's protocol,
they need evidence of any injuries, they say.
Choked sobs escape my mother's mouth
as I take my clothes off.
Shades of black and blue litter my body.
*******, thighs, stomach, *** -
my skin edited by violent hands.
My most intimate areas a part of a police file forever.
They take my ****** jeans, underwear, top all into evidence.
They leave.

Tuesday morning.
I am told not to go into school
by the head of year.
The boys are still allowed.
Motionless body lying in bed,
I stare at the wall for hours.
All of my energy put towards breathing.
Mum skipped work,
sitting outside my bedroom door
like a prison guard -
terrified I would hurt myself.
I can't speak.
How do you tell the woman who raised you
that you don't want to be alive anymore?

About a week later.
I still haven't been to school.
I've barely moved from my bed.
The physical marks have almost vanished,
but the sadness cripples me still.
I have to go to a police station today,
a forty minute trip.
My best friend comes.
I'm numb, I cannot feel the car moving.
I have been numb for over a week.
Isolation caves in on me -
I'm in an interview room with a policewoman and man.
They say three's a crowd,
but I still feel completely alone.
Just over six hours.
Recounting the event took over six hours.
The walls of the interview room painted grey,
or maybe that's just the only colour I can see now.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried since the Monday that everything became real.
Fragments of the night flash through my mind,
it's becoming difficult to close my eyes.
I went into the interview room while it was light outside,
I leave and it's pitch black.
When I check the time on my phone before I hand it in as evidence,
it's almost 11pm.

Another week passes.
I'm still not allowed into school.
Most of my friends have given up on me.
They don't want to be associated with the girl who cried **** because she was embarrassed of her foursome.
But no-one knows what happened behind that door.
The horrors that occurred,
the venom in the insults they spat at me,
using my body as a human rag doll.
The police call, the detective assigned to my case.
My heart drops
as my mum tells me what he says.
"They're treating two of the boys as witnesses,
only one as a suspect."
I go to my bedroom as I feel my heart strings sever.
Try to sleep,
but I cannot close my eyes.
I see the room,
the darkness,
their eyes.
I smell sweat and shame.
I hear them calling me "it" -
a worthless victim.
I feel the poison on their fingertips.
Dead the second they touched me.

Months pass.
Less contact with the police.
I go back to school.
Adjust to life as 'that girl'.
Learn to sleep again.
Deal with the nightmares and flashbacks.
Stop panicking every time someone touches me.
Open up about the pain I feel every day.

It's February.
Ten months later.
I haven't heard from the police since December.
When I ring
they tell me my case has been dropped.
They say there's a lack of evidence.
What they really mean is that no-one in court will believe
my story against the three of there's.
I expected this.
The blood on my underwear
does not count.
The pictures of my body painted with bruises
do not count.
The six hour recording where I describe every soul breaking ******
does not count.
The countless therapy sessions trying to fix the flashbacks and panic attacks
do not count.
The nights I planned how to die
do not count.
I used to be a person.
Now I'm just another **** case,
unsolved,
at the bottom of the pile.

S.  Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft ***** rose and fell.

S.  Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain
On Gabhra's raven-covered plain;
But where are your noble kith and kin,
And from what country do you ride?'

'My father and my mother are
Aengus and Edain, my own name
Niamh, and my country far
Beyond the tumbling of this tide.'

'What dream came with you that you came
Through bitter tide on foam-wet feet?
Did your companion wander away
From where the birds of Aengus wing?'
Thereon did she look haughty and sweet:
'I have not yet, war-weary king,
Been spoken of with any man;
Yet now I choose, for these four feet
Ran through the foam and ran to this
That I might have your son to kiss.'

'Were there no better than my son
That you through all that foam should run?'

'I loved no man, though kings besought,
Until the Danaan poets brought
Rhyme that rhymed upon Oisin's name,
And now I am dizzy with the thought
Of all that wisdom and the fame
Of battles broken by his hands,
Of stories builded by his words
That are like coloured Asian birds
At evening in their rainless lands.'

O Patrick, by your brazen bell,
There was no limb of mine but fell
Into a desperate gulph of love!
'You only will I wed,' I cried,
'And I will make a thousand songs,
And set your name all names above,
And captives bound with leathern thongs
Shall kneel and praise you, one by one,
At evening in my western dun.'

'O Oisin, mount by me and ride
To shores by the wash of the tremulous tide,
Where men have heaped no burial-mounds,
And the days pass by like a wayward tune,
Where broken faith has never been known
And the blushes of first love never have flown;
And there I will give you a hundred hounds;
No mightier creatures bay at the moon;
And a hundred robes of murmuring silk,
And a hundred calves and a hundred sheep
Whose long wool whiter than sea-froth flows,
And a hundred spears and a hundred bows,
And oil and wine and honey and milk,
And always never-anxious sleep;
While a hundred youths, mighty of limb,
But knowing nor tumult nor hate nor strife,
And a hundred ladies, merry as birds,
Who when they dance to a fitful measure
Have a speed like the speed of the salmon herds,
Shall follow your horn and obey your whim,
And you shall know the Danaan leisure;
And Niamh be with you for a wife.'
Then she sighed gently, 'It grows late.
Music and love and sleep await,
Where I would be when the white moon climbs,
The red sun falls and the world grows dim.'

And then I mounted and she bound me
With her triumphing arms around me,
And whispering to herself enwound me;
He shook himself and neighed three times:
Caoilte, Conan, and Finn came near,
And wept, and raised their lamenting hands,
And bid me stay, with many a tear;
But we rode out from the human lands.
In what far kingdom do you go'
Ah Fenians, with the shield and bow?
Or are you phantoms white as snow,
Whose lips had life's most prosperous glow?
O you, with whom in sloping vallcys,
Or down the dewy forest alleys,
I chased at morn the flying deer,
With whom I hurled the hurrying spear,
And heard the foemen's bucklers rattle,
And broke the heaving ranks of battle!
And Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
Where are you with your long rough hair?
You go not where the red deer feeds,
Nor tear the foemen from their steeds.

S.  Patrick. Boast not, nor mourn with drooping head
Companions long accurst and dead,
And hounds for centuries dust and air.

Oisin. We galloped over the glossy sea:
I know not if days passed or hours,
And Niamh sang continually
Danaan songs, and their dewy showers
Of pensive laughter, unhuman sound,
Lulled weariness, and softly round
My human sorrow her white arms wound.
We galloped; now a hornless deer
Passed by us, chased by a phantom hound
All pearly white, save one red ear;
And now a lady rode like the wind
With an apple of gold in her tossing hand;
And a beautiful young man followed behind
With quenchless gaze and fluttering hair.
'Were these two born in the Danaan land,
Or have they breathed the mortal air?'

'Vex them no longer,' Niamh said,
And sighing bowed her gentle head,
And sighing laid the pearly tip
Of one long finger on my lip.

But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun'S rim sank,
And clouds atrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
The horse towards the music raced,
Neighing along the lifeless waste;
Like sooty fingers, many a tree
Rose ever out of the warm sea;
And they were trembling ceaselessly,
As though they all were beating time,
Upon the centre of the sun,
To that low laughing woodland rhyme.
And, now our wandering hours were done,
We cantered to the shore, and knew
The reason of the trembling trees:
Round every branch the song-birds flew,
Or clung thereon like swarming bees;
While round the shore a million stood
Like drops of frozen rainbow light,
And pondered in a soft vain mood
Upon their shadows in the tide,
And told the purple deeps their pride,
And murmured snatches of delight;
And on the shores were many boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns, and fish-eating stoats,
And swans with their exultant throats:
And where the wood and waters meet
We tied the horse in a leafy clump,
And Niamh blew three merry notes
Out of a little silver trump;
And then an answering whispering flew
Over the bare and woody land,
A whisper of impetuous feet,
And ever nearer, nearer grew;
And from the woods rushed out a band
Of men and ladies, hand in hand,
And singing, singing all together;
Their brows were white as fragrant milk,
Their cloaks made out of yellow silk,
And trimmed with many a crimson feather;
And when they saw the cloak I wore
Was dim with mire of a mortal shore,
They fingered it and gazed on me
And laughed like murmurs of the sea;
But Niamh with a swift distress
Bid them away and hold their peace;
And when they heard her voice they ran
And knelt there, every girl and man,
And kissed, as they would never cease,
Her pearl-pale hand and the hem of her dress.
She bade them bring us to the hall
Where Aengus dreams, from sun to sun,
A Druid dream of the end of days
When the stars are to wane and the world be done.

They led us by long and shadowy ways
Where drops of dew in myriads fall,
And tangled creepers every hour
Blossom in some new crimson flower,
And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And made in all their distant parts,
With boom of bees in honey-marts,
A rumour of delighted hearts.
And once a lady by my side
Gave me a harp, and bid me sing,
And touch the laughing silver string;
But when I sang of human joy
A sorrow wrapped each merry face,
And, patrick! by your beard, they wept,
Until one came, a tearful boy;
'A sadder creature never stept
Than this strange human bard,' he cried;
And caught the silver harp away,
And, weeping over the white strings, hurled
It down in a leaf-hid, hollow place
That kept dim waters from the sky;
And each one said, with a long, long sigh,
'O saddest harp in all the world,
Sleep there till the moon and the stars die!'

And now, still sad, we came to where
A beautiful young man dreamed within
A house of wattles, clay, and skin;
One hand upheld his beardless chin,
And one a sceptre flashing out
Wild flames of red and gold and blue,
Like to a merry wandering rout
Of dancers leaping in the air;
And men and ladies knelt them there
And showed their eyes with teardrops dim,
And with low murmurs prayed to him,
And kissed the sceptre with red lips,
And touched it with their finger-tips.
He held that flashing sceptre up.
'Joy drowns the twilight in the dew,
And fills with stars night's purple cup,
And wakes the sluggard seeds of corn,
And stirs the young kid's budding horn,
And makes the infant ferns unwrap,
And for the peewit paints his cap,
And rolls along the unwieldy sun,
And makes the little planets run:
And if joy were not on the earth,
There were an end of change and birth,
And Earth and Heaven and Hell would die,
And in some gloomy barrow lie
Folded like a frozen fly;
Then mock at Death and Time with glances
And wavering arms and wandering dances.

'Men's hearts of old were drops of flame
That from the saffron morning came,
Or drops of silver joy that fell
Out of the moon's pale twisted shell;
But now hearts cry that hearts are slaves,
And toss and turn in narrow caves;
But here there is nor law nor rule,
Nor have hands held a weary tool;
And here there is nor Change nor Death,
But only kind and merry breath,
For joy is God and God is joy.'
With one long glance for girl and boy
And the pale blossom of the moon,
He fell into a Druid swoon.

And in a wild and sudden dance
We mocked at Time and Fate and Chance
And swept out of the wattled hall
And came to where the dewdrops fall
Among the foamdrops of the sea,
And there we hushed the revelry;
And, gathering on our brows a frown,
Bent all our swaying bodies down,
And to the waves that glimmer by
That sloping green De Danaan sod
Sang, 'God is joy and joy is God,
And things that have grown sad are wicked,
And things that fear the dawn of the morrow
Or the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

We danced to where in the winding thicket
The damask roses, bloom on bloom,
Like crimson meteors hang in the gloom.
And bending over them softly said,
Bending over them in the dance,
With a swift and friendly glance
From dewy eyes:  'Upon the dead
Fall the leaves of other roses,
On the dead dim earth encloses:
But never, never on our graves,
Heaped beside the glimmering waves,
Shall fall the leaves of damask roses.
For neither Death nor Change comes near us,
And all listless hours fear us,
And we fear no dawning morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

The dance wound through the windless woods;
The ever-summered solitudes;
Until the tossing arms grew still
Upon the woody central hill;
And, gathered in a panting band,
We flung on high each waving hand,
And sang unto the starry broods.
In our raised eyes there flashed a glow
Of milky brightness to and fro
As thus our song arose:  'You stars,
Across your wandering ruby cars
Shake the loose reins:  you slaves of God.
He rules you with an iron rod,
He holds you with an iron bond,
Each one woven to the other,
Each one woven to his brother
Like bubbles in a frozen pond;
But we in a lonely land abide
Unchainable as the dim tide,
With hearts that know nor law nor rule,
And hands that hold no wearisome tool,
Folded in love that fears no morrow,
Nor the grey wandering osprey Sorrow.'

O Patrick! for a hundred years
I chased upon that woody shore
The deer, the badger, and the boar.
O patrick! for a hundred years
At evening on the glimmering sands,
Beside the piled-up hunting spears,
These now outworn and withered hands
Wrestled among the island bands.
O patrick! for a hundred years
We went a-fishing in long boats
With bending sterns and bending bows,
And carven figures on their prows
Of bitterns and fish-eating stoats.
O patrick! for a hundred years
The gentle Niamh was my wife;
But now two things devour my life;
The things that most of all I hate:
Fasting and prayers.

S.  Patrick.      Tell on.

Oisin.                 Yes, yes,
For these were ancient Oisin's fate
Loosed long ago from Heaven's gate,
For his last days to lie in wait.
When one day by the tide I stood,
I found in that forgetfulness
Of dreamy foam a staff of wood
From some dead warrior's broken lance:
I tutned it in my hands; the stains
Of war were on it, and I wept,
Remembering how the Fenians stept
Along the blood-bedabbled plains,
Equal to good or grievous chance:
Thereon young Niamh softly came
And caught my hands, but spake no word
Save only many times my name,
In murmurs, like a frighted bird.
We passed by woods, and lawns of clover,
And found the horse and bridled him,
For we knew well the old was over.
I heard one say, 'His eyes grow dim
With all the ancient sorrow of men';
And wrapped in dreams rode out again
With hoofs of the pale findrinny
Over the glimmering purple sea.
Under the golden evening light,
The Immortals moved among thc fountains
By rivers and the woods' old night;
Some danced like shadows on the mountains
Some wandered ever hand in hand;
Or sat in dreams on the pale strand,
Each forehead like an obscure star
Bent down above each hooked knee,
And sang, and with a dreamy gaze
Watched where the sun in a saffron blaze
Was slumbering half in the sea-ways;
And, as they sang, the painted birds
Kept time with their bright wings and feet;
Like drops of honey came their words,
But fainter than a young lamb's bleat.

'An old man stirs the fire to a blaze,
In the house of a child, of a friend, of a brother.
He has over-lingered his welcome; the days,
Grown desolate, whisper and sigh to each other;
He hears the storm in the chimney above,
And bends to the fire and shakes with the cold,
While his heart still dreams of battle and love,
And the cry of the hounds on the hills of old.

But We are apart in the grassy places,
Where care cannot trouble the least of our days,
Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces,
Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.
The hare grows old as she plays in the sun
And gazes around her with eyes of brightness;
Before the swift things that she dreamed of were done
She limps along in an aged whiteness;
A storm of birds in the Asian trees
Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas,
That raise their heads and wander singing,
Must murmur at last, "Unjust, unjust";
And "My speed is a weariness," falters the mouse,
And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,
And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.
But the love-dew dims our eyes till the day
When God shall come from the Sea with a sigh
And bid the stars drop down from the sky,
And the moon like a pale rose wither away.'

Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke,
High as the Saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide;
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale distance broke;
The immortal desire of Immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.

I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair,
And never a song sang Niamh, and over my finger-tips
Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair,
And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.

Were we days long or hours long in riding, when, rolled in a grisly peace,
An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?
And we stood on a sea's edge we saw not; for whiter than new-washed fleece
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke.

And we rode on the plains of the sea's edge; the sea's edge barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away,
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.

But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark;
Dropping; a murmurous dropping; old silence and that one sound;
For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark:
Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.

And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night,
For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the world and the sun,
Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,
And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one.

Till the horse gave a whinny; for, cumbrous with stems of the hazel and oak,
A valley flowed down from his hoofs, and there in the long grass lay,
Under the starlight and shadow, a monstrous slumbering folk,
Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped in the way.

And by them were arrow and war-axe, arrow and shield and blade;
And dew-blanched horns, in whose hollow a child of three years old
Could sleep on a couch of rushes, and all inwrought and inlaid,
And more comely than man can make them with bronze and silver and gold.

And each of the huge white creatures was huger than fourscore men;
The tops of their ears were feathered, their hands were the claws of birds,
And, shaking the plumes of the grasses and the leaves of the mural glen,
The breathing came from those bodies, long warless, grown whiter than curds.

The wood was so Spacious above them, that He who has stars for His flocks
Could ****** the leaves with His fingers, nor go from His dew-cumbered skies;
So long were they sleeping, the owls had builded their nests in their locks,
Filling the fibrous dimness with long generations of eyes.

And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered and came,
Now in a place of star-fire, and now in a shadow-place wide;
And the chief of the huge white creatures, his knees in the soft star-flame,
Lay loose in a place of shadow:  we drew the reins by his side.

Golden the nails of his bird-clawS, flung loosely along the dim ground;
In one was a branch soft-shining with bells more many than sighs
In midst of an old man's *****; owls ruffling and pacing around
Sidled their bodies against him, filling the shade with their eyes.

And my gaze was thronged with the sleepers; no, not since the world began,
In realms where the handsome were many, nor in glamours by demons flung,
Have faces alive with such beauty been known to the salt eye of man,
Yet weary with passions that faded when the sevenfold seas were young.

And I gazed on the bell-branch, sleep's forebear, far sung by the Sennachies.
I saw how those slumbererS, grown weary, there camping in grasses deep,
Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the wandering seas,
Laid hands on the bell-branch and swayed it, and fed of unhuman sleep.

Snatching the horn of Niamh, I blew a long lingering note.
Came sound from those monstrous sleepers, a sound like the stirring of flies.
He, shaking the fold of his lips, and heaving the pillar of his throat,
Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of his eyes.

I cried, 'Come out of the shadow, king of the nails of gold!
And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works of your hands,
That we may muse in the starlight and talk of the battles of old;
Your questioner, Oisin, is worthy, he comes from the ****** lands.'

Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the smoke of their dreams;
His lips moved slowly in answer, no answer out of them came;
Then he swayed in his fingers the bell-branch, slow dropping a sound in faint streams
Softer than snow-flakes in April and piercing the marrow like flame.

Wrapt in the wave of that music, with weariness more than of earth,
The moil of my centuries filled me; and gone like a sea-covered stone
Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the memories of the whole of my mirth,
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

In the roots of the grasses, the sorrels, I laid my body as low;
And the pearl-pale Niamh lay by me, her brow on the midst of my breast;
And the horse was gone in the distance, and years after years 'gan flow;
Square leaves of the ivy moved over us, binding us down to our rest.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot
How the fetlocks drip blocd in the battle, when the fallen on fallen lie rolled;
How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the heron's plot,
And the name of the demon whose hammer made Conchubar's sword-blade of old.

And, man of the many white croziers, a century there I forgot
That the spear-shaft is made out of ashwood, the shield out of osier and hide;
How the hammers spring on the anvil, on the spearhead's burning spot;
How the slow, blue-eyed oxen of Finn low sadly at evening tide.

But in dreams, mild man of the croziers, driving the dust with their throngs,
Moved round me, of ****** or landsmen, all who are winter tales;
Came by me the kings of the Red Branch, with roaring of laughter and songs,
Or moved as they moved once, love-making or piercing the tempest with sails.

Came Blanid, Mac Nessa, tall Fergus who feastward of old time slunk,
Cook Barach, the traitor; and warward, the spittle on his beard never dry,
Dark Balor, as old as a forest, car-borne, his mighty head sunk
Helpless, men lifting the lids of his weary and death making eye.

And by me, in soft red raiment, the Fenians moved in loud streams,
And Grania, walking and smiling, sewed with her needle of bone.
So lived I and lived not, so wrought I and wrought not, with creatures of dreams,
In a long iron sleep, as a fish in the water goes dumb as a stone.

At times our slumber was lightened.  When the sun was on silver or gold;
When brushed with the wings of the owls, in the dimness they love going by;
When a glow-worm was green on a grass-leaf, lured from his lair in the mould;
Half wakening, we lifted our eyelids, and gazed on the grass with a sigh.

So watched I when, man of the croziers, at the heel of a century fell,
Weak, in the midst of the meadow, from his miles in the midst of the air,
A starling like them that forgathered 'neath a moon waking white as a shell
When the Fenians made foray at morning with Bran, Sceolan, Lomair.

I awoke:  the strange horse without summons out of the distance ran,
Thrusting his nose to my shoulder; he knew in his ***** deep
That once more moved in my ***** the ancient sadness of man,
And that I would leave the Immortals, their dimness, their dews dropping sleep.

O, had you seen beautiful Niamh grow white as the waters are white,
Lord of the croziers, you even had lifted your hands and wept:
But, the bird in my fingers, I mounted, remembering alone that delight
Of twilight and slumber were gone, and that hoofs impatiently stept.

I died, 'O Niamh! O white one! if only a twelve-houred day,
I must gaze on the beard of Finn, and move where the old men and young
In the Fenians' dwellings of wattle lean on the chessboards and play,
Ah, sweet to me now were even bald Conan's slanderous tongue!

'Like me were some galley forsaken far off in Meridian isle,
Remembering its long-oared companions, sails turning to threadbare rags;
No more to crawl on the seas with long oars mile after mile,
But to be amid shooting of flies and flowering of rushes and flags.'

Their motionless eyeballs of spirits grown mild with mysterious thought,
Watched her those seamless faces from the valley's glimmering girth;
As she murmured, 'O wandering Oisin, the strength of the bell-branch is naught,
For there moves alive in your fingers the fluttering sadness of earth.

'Then go through the lands in the saddle and see what the mortals do,
And softly come to your Niamh over the tops of the tide;
But weep for your Niamh, O Oisin, weep; for if only your shoe
Brush lightly as haymouse earth's pebbles, you will come no more to my side.

'O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?'
I saw from a distant saddle; from the earth she made her moan:
'I would die like a small withered leaf in the autumn, for breast unto breast
We shall mingle no more, nor our gazes empty their sweetness lone

'In the isles of the farthest seas where only the spirits come.
Were the winds less soft than the breath of a pigeon who sleeps on her nest,
Nor lost in the star-fires and odours the sound of the sea's vague drum?
O flaming lion of the world, O when will you turn to your rest?'

The wailing grew distant; I rode by the woods of the wrinkling bark,
Where ever is murmurous dropping, old silence and that one sound;
For no live creatures live there, no weasels move in the dark:
In a reverie forgetful of all things, over the bubbling' ground.

And I rode by the plains of the sea's edge, where all is barren and grey,
Grey sand on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,
Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away',
Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.

And the winds made the sands on the sea's edge turning and turning go,
As my mind made the names of the Fenians.  Far from the hazel and oak,
I rode away on the surges, where, high aS the saddle-bow,
Fled foam underneath me, and round me, a wandering and milky smoke.

Long fled the foam-flakes around me, the winds fled out of the vast,
Snatching the bird in secret; nor knew I, embosomed apart,
When they froze the cloth on my body like armour riveted fast,
For Remembrance, lifting her leanness, keened in the gates of my heart.

Till, fattening the winds of the morning, an odour of new-mown hay
Came, and my forehead fell low, and my tears like berries fell down;
Later a sound came, half lost in the sound of a shore far away,
From the great grass-barnacle calling, and later the shore-weeds brown.

If I were as I once was, the strong hoofs crushing the sand and the shells,
Coming out of the sea as the dawn comes, a chaunt of love on my lips,
Not coughing, my head on my knees, and praying, and wroth with the bells,
I would leave no saint's head on his body from Rachlin to Bera of ships.

Making way from the kindling surges, I rode on a bridle-path
Much wondering to see upon all hands, of wattles and woodwork made,
Your bell-mounted churches, and guardless the sacred cairn and the mth,
And a small and a feeble populace stooping with mattock and *****,

Or weeding or ploughing with faces a-shining with much-toil wet;
While in this place and that place, with bodies unglorious, their chieftains stood,
Awaiting in patience the straw-death, croziered one, caught in your net:
Went the laughter of scorn from my mouth like the roaring of wind in a wood.

And before I went by them so huge and so speedy with eyes so bright,
Came after the hard gaze of youth, or an old man lifted his head:
And I rode and I rode, and I cried out, 'The Fenians hunt wolves in the night,
So sleep thee by daytime.' A voice cried, 'The Fenians a long time are dead.'

A whitebeard stood hushed on the pathway, the flesh of his face as dried grass,
And in folds round his eyes and his mouth, he sad as a child without milk-
And the dreams of the islands were gone, and I knew how men sorrow and pass,
And their hound, and their horse, and their love, and their eyes that glimmer like silk.

And wrapping my face in my hair, I murmured, 'In old age they ceased';
And my tears were larger than berries, and I murmured, 'Where white clouds lie spread
On Crevroe or broad Knockfefin, with many of old they feast
On the floors of the gods.' He cried, 'No, the gods a long time are dead.'

And lonely and longing for Niamh, I shivered and turned me about,
The heart in me longing to leap like a grasshopper into her heart;
I turned and rode to the westward, and followed the sea's old shout
Till I saw where Maeve lies sleeping till starlight and midnight part.

And there at the foot of the mountain, two carried a sack full of sand,
They bore it with staggering and sweating, but fell with their burden at length.
Leaning down from the gem-studded saddle, I flung it five yards with my hand,
With a sob for men waxing so weakly, a sob for the Fenians' old strength.

The rest you have heard of, O croziered man; how, when divided the girth,
I fell on the path, and the horse went away like a summer fly;
And my years three hundred fell on me, and I rose, and walked on the earth,
A creeping old man, full of sleep, with the spittle on his beard never dry'.

How the men of the sand-sack showed me a church with its belfry in air;
Sorry place, where for swing of the war-axe in my dim eyes the crozier gleams;
What place have Caoilte and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair?
Speak, you too are old with your memories, an old man surrounded with dreams.

S.  Patrick. Where the flesh of the footsole clingeth on the burning stones is their place;
Where the demons whip them with wires on the burning stones of wide Hell,
Watching the blessed ones move far off, and the smile on God's face,
Between them a gateway of brass, and the howl of the angels who fell.

Oisin. Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians, O cleric, to chaunt
The war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise, making clouds with their Breath,
Innumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath them shall pant,
And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled beneath them in death.

And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of eyes and of wings,
Afraid, their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and rise up and weep;
Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of stretched bowstrings,
Hearing Hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and mocking we sweep.

We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the gateway of brass
And enter, and none sayeth 'No' when there enters the strongly armed guest;
Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen move over young grass;
Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old wounds, and turn to our rest.

S.  Patrick. On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs of the Fenians are tost;
None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the world in their rage;
But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your soul that is lost
Through the demon love of its youth and its godless and passionate age.

Oisin. Ah me! to be Shaken with coughing and broken with old age and pain,
Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance and fear;
All emptied of purple hours as a beggar's cloak in the rain,
As a hay-**** out on the flood, or a wolf ****** under a weir.

It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old there;
I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body has ceased,
I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair,
And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at feast.

I look at the stain
My period has left on my favorite *******
And hold them in my hand
As I contemplate what to do with them.
I can try to get the blood out
But the stain will still linger
A reminder that I am only human
And ******* is natural but -
“Dont talk about that,
Thats so nasty.
Maybe that's why
You've been such a *****.
Typical FEMALES”
I am gross for being a woman?
Men worship my *****
But the moment I bleed
It's as disgusting as curdled milk.
Society wants to see me
As something unhuman
An object to worship
A ******, mindless creature
That does what she's told
A FEMALE.
But I am a WOMAN
I have ideas, morals, and input.
My thoughts and opinions that matter.
I can make jokes,
And drink beer,
And read,
And play video games,
And be a musician,
And speak my mind,
And bleed.
Like a FEMALE human.
Or,
Like a woman.

Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names
And then away, away, like whirling flames;
And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound,
The youth and lady and the deer and hound;
'Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said,
And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head
And her bright body, sang of faery and man
Before God was or my old line began;
Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old
Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold;
And how those lovers never turn their eyes
Upon the life that fades and flickers and dies,
Yet love and kiss on dim shores far away
Rolled round with music of the sighing spray:
Yet sang no more as when, like a brown bee
That has drunk full, she crossed the misty sea
With me in her white arms a hundred years
Before this day; for now the fall of tears
Troubled her song.

                   I do not know if days
Or hours passed by, yet hold the morning rays
Shone many times among the glimmering flowers
Woven into her hair, before dark towers
Rose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamed
About them; and the horse of Faery screamed
And shivered, knowing the Isle of Many Fears,
Nor ceased until white Niamh stroked his ears
And named him by sweet names.

                              A foaming tide
Whitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide,
Burst from a great door matred by many a blow
From mace and sword and pole-axe, long ago
When gods and giants warred.  We rode between
The seaweed-covered pillars; and the green
And surging phosphorus alone gave light
On our dark pathway, till a countless flight
Of moonlit steps glimmered; and left and right
Dark statues glimmered over the pale tide
Upon dark thrones.  Between the lids of one
The imaged meteors had flashed and run
And had disported in the stilly jet,
And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set,
Since God made Time and Death and Sleep:  the other
Stretched his long arm to where, a misty smother,
The stream churned, churned, and churned - his lips apart,
As though he told his never-slumbering heart
Of every foamdrop on its misty way.
Tying the horse to his vast foot that lay
Half in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stair
And climbed so long, I thought the last steps were
Hung from the morning star; when these mild words
Fanned the delighted air like wings of birds:
'My brothers spring out of their beds at morn,
A-murmur like young partridge:  with loud horn
They chase the noontide deer;
And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air
Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare
An ashen hunting spear.
O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me;
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea,
And shores the froth lips wet:
And stay a little while, and bid them weep:
Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep,
And shake their coverlet.
When you have told how I weep endlessly,
Flutter along the froth lips of the sea
And home to me again,
And in the shadow of my hair lie hid,
And tell me that you found a man unbid,
The saddest of all men.'

A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers,
And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours,
And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous
As any ruddy moth, looked down on us;
And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied
To two old eagles, full of ancient pride,
That with dim eyeballs stood on either side.
Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings,
For their dim minds were with the ancient things.

'I bring deliverance,' pearl-pale Niamh said.

'Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead,
Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight
My enemy and hope; demons for fright
Jabber and scream about him in the night;
For he is strong and crafty as the seas
That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees,
And I must needs endure and hate and weep,
Until the gods and demons drop asleep,
Hearing Acdh touch thc mournful strings of gold.'

'Is he so dreadful?'
                     'Be not over-bold,
But fly while still you may.'
                              And thereon I:
'This demon shall be battered till he die,
And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.'
'Flee from him,' pearl-pale Niamh weeping cried,
'For all men flee the demons'; but moved not
My angry king-remembering soul one jot.
There was no mightier soul of Heber's line;
Now it is old and mouse-like.  For a sign
I burst the chain:  still earless, neNeless, blind,
Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind,
In some dim memory or ancient mood,
Still earless, netveless, blind, the eagles stood.

And then we climbed the stair to a high door;
A hundred horsemen on the basalt floor
Beneath had paced content:  we held our way
And stood within:  clothed in a misty ray
I saw a foam-white seagull drift and float
Under the roof, and with a straining throat
Shouted, and hailed him:  he hung there a star,
For no man's cry shall ever mount so far;
Not even your God could have thrown down that hall;
Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall,
He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart,
As though His hour were come.

                              We sought the part
That was most distant from the door; green slime
Made the way slippery, and time on time
Showed prints of sea-born scales, while down through it
The captive's journeys to and fro were writ
Like a small river, and where feet touched came
A momentary gleam of phosphorus flame.
Under the deepest shadows of the hall
That woman found a ring hung on the wall,
And in the ring a torch, and with its flare
Making a world about her in the air,
Passed under the dim doorway, out of sight,
And came again, holding a second light
Burning between her fingers, and in mine
Laid it and sighed:  I held a sword whose shine
No centuries could dim, and a word ran
Thereon in Ogham letters, 'Manannan';
That sea-god's name, who in a deep content
Sprang dripping, and, with captive demons sent
Out of the sevenfold seas, built the dark hall
Rooted in foam and clouds, and cried to all
The mightier masters of a mightier race;
And at his cry there came no milk-pale face
Under a crown of thorns and dark with blood,
But only exultant faces.

                         Niamh stood
With bowed head, trembling when the white blade shone,
But she whose hours of tenderness were gone
Had neither hope nor fear.  I bade them hide
Under the shadowS till the tumults died
Of the loud-crashing and earth-shaking fight,
Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight;
And ****** the torch between the slimy flags.
A dome made out of endless carven jags,
Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face,
Looked down on me; and in the self-same place
I waited hour by hour, and the high dome,
Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous home
Of faces, waited; and the leisured gaze
Was loaded with the memory of days
Buried and mighty.  When through the great door
The dawn came in, and glimmered on the floor
With a pale light, I journeyed round the hall
And found a door deep sunken in the wall,
The least of doors; beyond on a dim plain
A little mnnel made a bubbling strain,
And on the runnel's stony and bare edge
A dusky demon dry as a withered sedge
Swayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue:
In a sad revelry he sang and swung
Bacchant and mournful, passing to and fro
His hand along the runnel's side, as though
The flowers still grew there:  far on the sea's waste
Shaking and waving, vapour vapour chased,
While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light,
Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright,
Hung in the passionate dawn.  He slowly turned:
A demon's leisure:  eyes, first white, now burned
Like wings of kingfishers; and he arose
Barking.  We trampled up and down with blows
Of sword and brazen battle-axe, while day
Gave to high noon and noon to night gave way;
And when he knew the sword of Manannan
Amid the shades of night, he changed and ran
Through many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throat
Of a great eel; it changed, and I but smote
A fir-tree roaring in its leafless top;
And thereupon I drew the livid chop
Of a drowned dripping body to my breast;
Horror from horror grew; but when the west
Had surged up in a plumy fire, I drave
Through heart and spine; and cast him in the wave
Lest Niamh shudder.

                    Full of hope and dread
Those two came carrying wine and meat and bread,
And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowers
That feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine;
Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea-shine,
We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine,
Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that lay
Upon the lips of sea-gods in their day;
And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept.
And when the sun once more in saffron stept,
Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep,
We sang the loves and angers without sleep,
And all the exultant labours of the strong.
But now the lying clerics ****** song
With barren words and flatteries of the weak.
In what land do the powerless turn the beak
Of ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath?
For all your croziers, they have left the path
And wander in the storms and clinging snows,
Hopeless for ever:  ancient Oisin knows,
For he is weak and poor and blind, and lies
On the anvil of the world.

S.  Patrick.        Be still:  the skies
Are choked with thunder, lightning, and fierce wind,
For God has heard, and speaks His angry mind;
Go cast your body on the stones and pray,
For He has wrought midnight and dawn and day.

Oisin. Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunder
The ****** horses; atmour torn asunder;
Laughter and cries.  The armies clash and shock,
And now the daylight-darkening ravens flock.
Cease, cease, O mournful, laughing ****** horn!

We feasted for three days.  On the fourth morn
I found, dropping sea-foam on the wide stair,
And hung with slime, and whispering in his hair,
That demon dull and unsubduable;
And once more to a day-long battle fell,
And at the sundown threw him in the surge,
To lie until the fourth morn saw emerge
His new-healed shape; and for a hundred years
So watred, so feasted, with nor dreams nor fears,
Nor languor nor fatigue:  an endless feast,
An endless war.

                The hundred years had ceased;
I stood upon the stair:  the surges bore
A beech-bough to me, and my heart grew sore,
Remembering how I had stood by white-haired Finn
Under a beech at Almhuin and heard the thin
Outcry of bats.

                And then young Niamh came
Holding that horse, and sadly called my name;
I mounted, and we passed over the lone
And drifting greyness, while this monotone,
Surly and distant, mixed inseparably
Into the clangour of the wind and sea.

'I hear my soul drop down into decay,
And Mananna's dark tower, stone after stone.
Gather sea-slime and fall the seaward way,
And the moon goad the waters night and day,
That all be overthrown.

'But till the moon has taken all, I wage
War on the mightiest men under the skies,
And they have fallen or fled, age after age.
Light is man's love, and lighter is man's rage;
His purpose drifts and dies.'

And then lost Niamh murmured, 'Love, we go
To the Island of Forgetfulness, for lo!
The Islands of Dancing and of Victories
Are empty of all power.'

                         'And which of these
Is the Island of Content?'

                           'None know,' she said;
And on my ***** laid her weeping head.

close girl, you gang leader, take the lead
the question put fake strength to you
and your city pants
to death and times unseen
and documents of forceful
*******, violent steel
but picking vegetables
she lets the cat destroy the hamster
cousin, sister, grandmother haunt
vascillate your color, unhuman hue
find the home of dying friends
and family forgotten
only a spell of eyes can see you close again.

I have shared in my time the human illusions,
the muddy foolishness and craving passions.
But something years ago pulled me out of the tide-wash;
I cannot even pretend to be one of the people.
I stand here with open eyes in the clear air growing old.
Watching with interest and considerable nausea,
this time of the demagogues, the shifts of power,
and the pitiless wars that prepare for the fall.
But also the enormous unhuman beauty of things;
rock, sea and stars; fool-proof and permanent.

But as for my children, I would have them
keep their distance from the thickening center,
corruption never has been compulsory.
When the cities lie at the monster's feet
there are left the mountains.

Any man canst walketh away
When it comes to waiting for his amare,

As for me....  

I shalt support her
As whilst at the same time,
Loving her in return..  

Making me
(Nonhuman)

First
She walked out
And I had to learn
That I was a coward
An orphaned lover
An old house cat
Abandoned
In a grocery store parking lot
I had to face it again
The emptiness
I smoked all of those nights
Away
I was numb
I was nothing
I lost 30 lbs in 2 months
Then it all caught up with me
One night my heart started beating
Rapidly
I couldn't breath
Started to shake
I sat in a corner and watched
The room grow ten times it's size
I heard a static crack in the ears
I was lost and unhuman
I was a rabid dog trapped in a corner
I felt sick for weeks after
So
I gave up the ***
Switched to drinking
Whole bottles of whiskey
128 lbs, shirtless, screaming
The fellas laughed at the beginning
Until I started throwing ****
Trying to fight everybody, anybody
I had 3 new catch phrases
"I'll ****** **** you man"
"I'll smash all your ******* teeth in"
"I've seen it all man."
After a while it became
Too much for the fellas
And soon they were all gone
So
I found better company
Dostoevsky, Fante,Bukowski,Hemingway,
Hamsun,Lorca,Sartre, etc.
I found a ****** apartment
in San Pedro
Drank beer and read every night
Until the loneliness felt comfortable
And then I
Accidentally
Became alcoholic
Then i took my wild act
To the streets
A few weeks ago I was at a concert
And this guy kept elbowing me
In the ribs
I said "If you keep sticking that elbow
To me, I'll ****** **** you man."
I said it cool and soft
And the guy looked real scared
And I was too
So
I had to quit drinking...
I keep thinking about
Zarathustra
Rising from his cave
After years of solitude...
A guy at work said
"November's almost gone
Man, this year just blew right by"
And I thought
'Good.'

My voice and guitar echoed from
The wall of rain outside my
Window.

Wasps seek shelter like little
Refugees; pass my face and
Settle inside to

Dry little wings under roof.
I wave them only away from
My glass of wine.

All are welcome. Rain falls
Harder on the small.
Shelter and space.

Such easy
Things to
Share.  

Nothing unhuman
Could ever be a
Stranger.

I only feel in extremes,
all at once,
nothing at all,
no in between,

they are wild,
changing rapidly,
bouncing around,

then, they are silent,
unmoving,
nothing happening,
feeling unhuman,

Stop.
This is no poem.
This is an attack on your autonomy.
The verbs chosen with care,
those awful verbs.
Stop.
You are not human.
The electrical activity of your brain,
that's all there is with you.
Much like every brain, you feel--yes,
and you feel quite human.
Stop.
Unhuman inhumanity in the bliss-pool of ignorance.
Why not raise hands to be lifted out?
I warned you that this was no poem.
Yet, still you persist, and read, "you aren't capable of interpreting this because you aren't me."
Not poetry, despite a sneaky rhyme, no it's a piece of me.
Diary with pink ribbons and a list of all the boys at school.
Diary with lock and key within which I hide that which you can't see.
What if we all spoke in rhyme exclusively?
We would be forced to think before we drooled.
And no one could be fooled about just how ugly you are.
Ah, no, but thinking hides more.
Stop!
I might stream consciousness all over your lovely dress!
Then you would be forced to undress under the unbelievable scrutiny of total strangers
who ought not to give a **** but do
because they haven't tried on enough shoes.
Unlike you, who have tried on too many.
As if perspective were a shoe, mass produced, and inevitably falling out of fashion.
Alas, we are stuck with cliche interjections and archaic pronouns--thou know it!
Stop.
I forgot this was a poem.

The was once a person whose name was
Jacob,
he thought he had everything worked out in his life,
he was a genius and he didn't care
about love neither did he care about family.
He thought he figured his life out,
he thought he was better than everyone else.
The genius got to his head,
to the point where he thought too much.
He became paranoid thinking everyone was after his ideas.
Ideas that took Einstein and Edison,
to the list of failures in the eyes of the world.

Often enough he would always bump into people,
who gave him advice,
different people different times of the day.
"This is how you should live your life Jacob,
this is how you should talk,
this is how you should dress & behave."
Jacob listened to these people,
and that's what got him where he is today.
Was he lucky?
Would he have been as intelligent as he is if he wouldn't have?
A wise man told him:
"Take a look around Jacob,
Each person you see,
has a story to tell.
Each person bleeds the way you bleed,
each person suffers the way you suffer.
Everyone you see,
has a heart and a soul.
But you see Jacob,
What you can't always see,
is that these people have a problem.
Behind the smiles,
behind the jokes,
& the lauhghter.
Every single one of them has a different problem,
but these problems aren't like simple math equations.
Some are angry, some are sad, some are too happy all
the ******* time and when misery hits them
they're on the verge of suicide because
life suddenly isn't what it seems to be."
"Why are you telling me this old man?" He responded,
"Because you are the same as all these people." Said the wise man.

After the wise man told him this,
Jacob walked away,
got home, sat down and thought about his life in the eyes of others.
He came to the conclusion that he did have a problem,
and it's that all he thinks about is himself,
his successes,
he tries so hard to be a certain person,
but forgets who he really is.
He tries so hard to be better than everyone else,
but when he sees someone who is poor, with clothes that are
wrecked and with a family
he can see that this person is struggling and at that
moment he becomes saddened that these are the people
he looks down upon.
Jacob then sits down on his bed,
lays his head on his pillow and continues to think until he falls asleep.

That same night Jacob had a dream.
He was naked with no clothes,
hungry with no food.
Starving and around him there were people eating each other because
the world had been overcome by disease
and all the animals have died because of this.
Everywhere he looked there was death,
he looked at the ocean and it was covered in blood,
the skies covered by all the smoke from the fires around him.
The rich kicked out the poor and made cities for themselves
and their family.
Jacob was scared and did not know what to do until a Canibal
slashed his neck with a machete.

He then woke up,
breathing heavily asking himself
what the **** did i just dream ?
When he woke up he couldn't go back to sleep,
it was 4 in the morning ,
he went out and went to the place where he met the old man.
He saw the old man,
homeless and hungry,
he saw they was a nearby gasoline station,
he went in and got him a sandwich,
he handed it to the poor old wise man,
and the wise man said:
"I don't need your pity,
and i don't desire to be taken care of by those
who put down others because of what they look like,
go away."
"Wait a minute, i know now what you meant i had a dream
where i saw people suffering and chaos.
I saw a family who was poor the other day but they were still happy, why were they smiling?" asked Jacob,
The poor old wise man responder,
"What you see in your dream is only a tiny picture of reality,
whatever is in our mind could one day become true. The reason
those people were smiling is because they may not have
all the money in the world, they may not even have a roof over their head or a pillow to sleep on. But they are happy to be alive and together,
in this condition it's when you hold on dearly to your own life and the lives
of the people you love because it could be stripped away
from you one day. When you have all the money in the world, what will
there be next? Money doesn't make you unhuman, you will be the same exact person as these people are, with a problem, you'll still bleed the same as everyone else, you'll smile and frown the same as everyone else,
but who is the weak one, the one who was poor, became rich, kept his money and has ever only thought about himself, or the one who was rich
and gave all his money to those in need until he became poor?"

Jacob then realized that this is what this man had done.

I dont expect for others to understand
How I loveth
Or how I giveth mine love

Because I am not human
And no human
Will ever understand that!!!

I write poems for kids
That too often get asked

“are you a boy, or a girl”

Because they are the only ones who
Will understand the physical rush
Of empowerment versus discouragement
In their guts

The question that verifies
You have finally broken gender norms
Unhuman.
Floating in unearthly genderless celestial bodies

“are you a boy, or a girl”

Only to hit the ground faster than falling stars
When told

“you better ******* start acting like it”

I write poems for kids
Who have a bird cage for ribs
And fish for a heart
Raised on its ability to fly

Look kid, you gotta learn how to swim away
Because you’ll be question by bird keepers
Until the day your veins are able to run upstream

You’ll leave the closet to only join the zoo
So enjoy the field trips
And the bears, and the otters
And learn to question the birds and the bees
It’s okay to only want birds on birds, bees on bees

It’s okay to want to try ****.
And it’s okay to want to stay as far away as possible
To think about *** at sixteen and keep that sweet composure

One day the reflection on the glass isn’t going to match
The second grade smile behind it

Frame yourself however you may choose
It’s okay to have purple hair
We all make mistakes
Don't feel guilty for being too scared to tell your mother

Your whole life, people have been trying to build you in the wrong direction
They aren’t going to understand what it feels like
To simply just wear
Eyeliner,
I understand, it’s war paint

Or the kind of questions you’ll get all afternoon
“are you a boy, or a girl”

Your identity is not polarized
Gender is a spectrum, not a just *****
There’s shades between the seven colors I fit in

Recognize you’ll be lonely eight days of the week
There’s no one like you at home or at school or work
So step out of frames,
Look at bigger pictures

Every hallway is your catwalk, every shoe
Can be your empire state stiletto
Every ****, ******, slur is compliment to the human anarchy inside your bones

Your human anatomy matched with the way your mind things
Is one of the greatest forms of activism
And if you ever go through an emo phase,
Be the baddest goth child you can be!

I write poems for kids
That fall between “boy and girl”
I write poems that I wish I heard as a kid
To tell kids to keep fighting
Even though the war is not yet won
There’s victory in every battle you tired

Falling fast down hovelled stairs,
digesting wealth to ransom cares,
grotesque men who soil and harrow
suspend my dreams from thinning rope.

As discharge weeps from places raw
and blisters burn a molten core,
another phallus, soiled and poisoned
wants for smack and *****’d ******.

I bleed from wounds so deep within
of pain so stark and crude and raw
that pins me ‘neath the brine of sin
like drowning prey in ***** and ****.

I fail to dim the moving shadows:
those twisting jerks of spewed release –
but coming soon will silent growls
of dripping fat and blistered guilts.

Voiced within me, vague and distant,
something cries, yet tears withdraw.
Copious unheard pleas are buried;
here lay I, unknown, destroyed.

To burrow past unhuman men
(to further seal a keyless lock)
would ‘splay me in the public eye,
exampled, maimed, defeated; lost.

Phlegm and fur may line my mouth;
engorged, my lips, a ***** for more.
But somewhere deep inside myself
I’ve walked away from Brothel Shore.

Where pride hides
And the truth is muted
Covered by little white lies
Say hello to my bad side
Where the demons bay like wolves
That's moon eclipse the sun
Painting the sky red
Stained by its blood
It's been pierced by a rocket an left for dead
My bad side
Where the darkness roams free
Chasing the light
Holding it in glass bottles as trophies
Manipulation is the way of life
Hate the ambassador
Rage bake in fires
Forge by a missing father
Raised by a tortured mother
My bad side
Slept with temptation
Birth lust
Girls hunted like prey
Only to be released before the ****
Regret has no meaning
It's not found
The world is broken
It's flipped upside down
So rain seems the fall from the ground
My bad side
Where there so many unhuman things found
Say hello to my bad side
Where the grass isn't green at all

When we say this we refer to men as
rather unhuman beings
machines
as beings who are not supposed to
show their feelings
show their tears
show their hurt
show their passion
show what they love to do
when we say "Man up!"
We usually mean
"dont act like a girl, you are bettter than that"
"dont be this feminine"
"boys dont cry"
"boys shouldnt like ballet"
"boys shouldnt do this, shouldnt do that"
"you run like a girl"

Yes, you can man up.
Man up!
Man up for what you feel is right and not for what society thinks is right.
Man up without bringing yourself down.

Man. Up. For. Your. Self.
and only for yourself.

Miss the ones that chose to die,
Sensations that we want to leave behind.
How and why so many people lie.
Or give up before they even tried.

Lie, cheat, steal, made to feel unhuman, another pill,
Sit still, you tell me to chill, the unreal,
Delete evil past or continue to be ill,
Pain ****, sane ****, double drop morning after pills.

It will be okay, mind chill, forget it mate,
It is just anther mental headache,
Use that confidence and try to communicate,
Day to day, rain to pain, tomorrow is another day.

I am this way this is not insane,
Today I am tired, emotionally drained.

When I was little, I was taught to fear ghosts.

I was told that they were bad,
that they were the devils' work.

That they were unnatural, unhuman, and needed to be vanquished.

But I've grown to know the opposite.
The ghosts in my house are the only things keeping me from falling apart at the seams.
They keep me company, and whisper strings of hope in my ear.
I need these ghosts,
to live
and breathe
and survive.

One's name is Evelyn.
She creeps around,
she pulls the razor away,
dries my tears.

She hasn't told of how she lost her life,
but there's something in her eyes
that tells me she was the cause of her own destruction.

One's name is Patch.
Or so his nickname is.
I think I may be in love.
Is that possible?
Maybe one day, I'll join him.
Until then, I bid my time.

Crawling out of my mouth from whence it peeks out from under my tongue
The teeth bite with metal sound upon the spoon
Slipping in my stomach the slime
I decline the double bent fingers you lend
Hearts wretched cavity lying in my throat
A gnawing grip at my temples unable to free last night’s tears
The clink of teeth and spoon grinding at each others hard skin
Shrink from my eyes the blur of the past year
Tempest toss screaming from inside my brain
blue white radiance gleamed violence and heat
scorching undeserving thumbs from sad hunched men
In Dark Rooms they count down the time
Until their lover’s friends reach immutable verdict
Guilty of High Crimes Cried In Unison
By testimony of your heart
I sentence thee to fractured living and eternal wandering
For the **** of emotions and time
Never to feel passion or intimate soft hands
Tilt your face to the ground for the light does not touch you
Bring your knees broken on hard pavement
I feel your loss
Blood filled stuffed animal
Bleed out of ego
Falling out of your body
Hands Clasped together and heads touching
Clear that the abuse comes from my white knuckles
Now twist your spine ten-fold
Living in hypocrisy the mirror says
I know not the right path
Leave me be as my unhuman person
Feeling for the oozing viscera out my pores
Claws mark me into confusing messes
Snap the connection
The Black blackens against the brackish water
Wading further down the sand grips at my heart
Crystalizing it so that It may be transfixed into something
living.

My breath caught, frozen in July
Summer's heat, couldn't draw near
Such was the sight, broken before me

Crouching, ******* the earth
The town broken, lay before me
Radiated in charcoal end, smoking embers

Centered around, spoked out
Once standing proud, a church
Only its brass cross now, tombstoned

Precious packaged, I circled
Searching for life, not charred remains
Either eluded me, ash rained

I crept, grey cloaked and hidden
Strange stories, whispered on mens lips
In homes lit brighter, the night seemed darker

Far East, something had risen
Had cast of ill formed shells, shrugged
Minds and bodies, bent strange

My destination, unsurvived
This brimstone eruption, complete
Little but a frame, withered home

Sifting through wreckage, human and debris
The hand was there, stiff and curled
Wearing the ring, but not a ring

Sawn, not touched
The hand, with me
As well, the ring

In its place, less burdened
The package, placed
Payment for, left handed thief

Spending moments, no less
I sought the church, devoid of life
Additional promise, hidden away

It's timber splintered, crushing
Burned from within, cries on the wind
Its doors had been barred, broken in

Protecting souls, blacken, wooden and thin
Strange symbols, golden jeweled, silver skinned
The Hanging God, crucified and crowned

Such as gods may, none were saved
Children, babies and mothers alike
All tortured by flame, fire

Treasure, reburied in hold
Leather bound, and square
And the thief, hand ring

I redonned cloak, boot and stick
Wrapped in grey, clinging to shadow
With twightlite falling, sped foot

Far from this place, burned to soot
Too many human, blooded and torn
But most haste, those dead and unhuman

I watched close the shadowed, deep
Fearing to be followed, more; unsleep
Seeking to deliver unholy, but my soul keep

l put down the words
all lies?????

Maybe the paper wont understand the feelings
Or its the fear that even poetry could know my story

its all hidden in between the lines
And in the letters l find my solace

Can l find my true safe heaven on pen and paper?
its all an illusion, nothing gets better

Maybe it all comes down to being emotionless
Am l unhuman????? NO

My heart is just too big to store everything
Originally it was meant to pump blood but that changed

Why it never pops all the feelings or get tired? idk
its still a mystery

Even l want to know when l can finally break free
for now its safe to say its nature...……..

I could not see the next summit,
the gashed gnarl of its face.
I guessed only that its steepening
inclines had been set against me.

I could hear all the echoings
of the dead in their ice-tombs
where their aims had led them
and buried them, then, deeper,

the incredible footfall
of sherpas, spirited, light
and deft, unbetraying. A silence
stretched on toward a night

long with unhuman testimony.
Then it came: the world-clearing
hammer-blows of distant avalanches,
the palpitations of chaos,

one whiteout of potentiality.
My tent fluttered and gripped
at the snow that stored for spring
all paths to the peak, leading

through veils of embraces,
inconsolable losses, charms,
fantastic indictments. Swelling
its stormfront, then collapsing

into a voice like winter, the wind
took up a human song and broke
across the horizons. It sang,
'You are an unborn fjord,

a chasm yet to be. Only water
sculpts its beauty: let it pass.
Throw no harness over the clouds,
they hold no secrets, but are.

Here, while you plan your ascent
each night, exalting the fey,
the indolent, the totemic, you are
like a thief on a watchtower.

Until every such night has passed
you will light, tend, and watch die
a small, tense fire, but awake
surrounded by footprints.'

rage simmers deep
in my stomach,
i swallow whole,
choking, tortured,
the words which
whisper violence
whisper courage
whisper shame

i'm floating through the halls,
my eyes glassed over, my heart
bleeding onto the floor
i don't have the energy
to mop up the red rage
resist repair
resist healing
resist righteousness

there is poison
sprouting from the ground
chemicals have turned
unhuman, unharmonious,
my fingers knives of solitude
breathing life
breathing death
breathing glass

The thought of a blade cutting his flesh to the bone had always been a dread fascination of Jakith’s. Something he would day dream of from time to time which had never failed to send chills flooding down the back of his neck. Here and now, it did far more than fascinate, it enslaved his entire focus. The glinting piece of steel demanded attention, twisting his guts to knots, his sense spilling from his mind like ice water bursting from a flimsy dam. Absolutely captivated by the gleam of the cruel instrument moving from side to side, back and forth with a practiced weight and feline prowess. The man holding the knife was a decrepit thing. Thin, yet stringy with corded muscle, which wriggled under rough skin as he clenched and flexed his hands. It was easy to see that these hands were no stranger to hard work, and the more Jakith studied them, it seemed to him that the work had been violence and blood. Knuckles gnarled and crisscrossed with old scars, but his eyes were the most unsettling feature of this cacophony of a face, chips of flint leered ****** from beneath granite brows. The remainder was hard lined, craggy and gaunt. It reminded Jakith of standing at the edge of a cliff and staring down into oblivion. Jakith held his hands up in a feeble attempt to disarm the situation and was taking careful steps back from the man as though he’d just cornered a rabid hound. He could feel the panic begin, now coming to a boil, overflowing, grabbing hold of his limbs, molten bronze coursing through his veins and coming to set, freezing him solid.  
“What do you want?” his voice a cracking squeak.
The man said nothing, huffing and snorting like a bull preparing itself for violence.
“I’ve got money, take it!” Jakith fumbled to untie his coin purse, holding it up to display its meager contents. He would have given the man anything to end this waking nightmare “Please! Take anything you want, please!” his voice thick, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, take anything you wan...” his words cut short, turning to a cry of utter despair as the man lunged forward, grabbing for Jakith’s neck with one hand while the other came up with deadly intent, a veteran fighter throwing a punishing body blow. Jakith dropped the purse from his numb fingers as he reached in a pathetic attempt to stop the man’s arm from ramming the blade into his side. Jakith felt his one hand dig hard into the man’s bent elbow, the other completely missed the mark only managing to get a meek hold on the back of the man’s sleeve. Before he could adjust his position he felt the first punch thud into his ribs. Jakith let out a wavering cry ‘Stop! No!” another one thump “AAK…. NO!” grunting “….UGH!” he felt the wind knocked out of him on the third punch, gasping for breath. The grim realization that the punches were tipped with steel caused his mind to reel with disbelief. The man’s hand, gripping like irons around the back of Jakith’s neck and pulling close enough to whisper murderous secrets, his arm a piston driving the blade up, again and again and again, but all coming short. Jakith had worked his hands around the man’s wrist, ******* in his stomach and half jumping with every ******. “What do I do? What do I do?” His mind racing, the man’s rank stink was overwhelming, flooding his nostrils, he could hear the man’s rasping breath in his ear, close as lovers. Jakith felt his strength failing, and the thought of another painless horrifying thump made him want to scream “stop, please stop, anything, stop!” but Jakith knew the time for words had been long dead, his hopes dying with them. His mind was going black, but in the blackest pits of Jakith’s mind something was lurking, waiting. An ancient sleeping demon forced to the light. A sudden animal fury came boiling up exploding with reckless abandon and he let out an unhuman scream. There were no words, no thoughts, just a single unrelenting focus on the absolute obliteration of this worthless flesh in front of him.  Jakith twisted his head up and bit into the man’s neck like a snarling wolf. He felt the gristle and flesh give way and blood filled his mouth. He spat gore and bit again pushing his mouth hard into the man’s straining muscles and crunched. Jakith’s eyes were wild, blood spattered across his pate, and the man let out a cry of pain and fury, jerking away. The man tried to step back, but Jakith feeling the weight shift and swept the man’s leg with his own, and they began to fall. The man’s head clacked off the ground with the familiar sound of knocking hardwood, and they began to struggle for the knife. Jakith cried out in savage frustration trying desperately to secure the weapon. He grabbed the man’s wrist and threw his legs around the man’s head. The man sunk his teeth into the back of his thigh, but that wasn’t important, with every ounce of mad savagery left to him, Jakith yanked the man’s arm to his chest, using hips as a fulcrum and snapped his back straight. The man’s elbow exploded with a repulsive crack and crunch as it gave way like a buddle of dry twigs. Jakith held the man’s limp arm and began unleashing his fist in a flurry, hammering the man’s face tears streaming from eyes, his usually friendly grin looked more like a ravenous demon mask, pale but for the gore splattering. He was still holding the man’s arm which held the knife, Jakith pried the knife from his useless fingers. “You ****! You ****** pathetic… ****!” before he even knew what he was doing, the knife came down in a savage arc and Jakith felt the blade glance off his cheek bone, hitting the stone sending sparks. Flesh sheared like paper, with what seems like unbelievable ease and leaving a ghastly wound. “You ****! You ****!”  Shrieking now, shrill and panicked, an animal insanity gripping him, holding him, comforting him. He felt a wave of maddening exaltation as he slammed the knife down, again and again. His rage coalescing into white hot beam of molten lust, a lunatic’s grin peeling from his lips. The man’s head was losing all of it remaining human qualities, a wet mass with one eye split in two and the other staring at nothing. “You ****, you ******….” He wheezed. The man was dead and for Jakith the madness was passing. He kicked the corpse away, disgusted and shocked by the realization of what he had done. He stammered to his feet, panting. Try as he might he could not take his eyes away from the horrific scene, gasping for breath which rasped and gurgled in his chest. The knife fell from his hand, sticky with blood and half clattered on the stone damped by the spreading pool. “What the… ****…?” Jakith brought his hand up to where the man had struck him and pulled his hand away wet and glistening with fresh blood, he staggered back lifting his shirt. Dark lines crisscrossed down his side, he stared in disbelief as blood ran from his wounds. “Oh…” he said words catching “well… that’s not good”. The despair creeped back into his mind and he clutched his hand to the wound, trying to staunch the flowing blood. “Help!” he cried as loud as he could, but to his dismay, the voice hardly sounding like his own, was no more than a croaking whisper. His eyes kept returning to the ****** mess of his side, an unbelievable amount of blood pouring between his fingers. “Help…” he stumbled and reeled looking for someone, anyone. He was alone, but for the mangled corpse. His eyes came to rest on the wound again, but he found that the more he stared, the more he felt he did not seem to care anymore.  The only thought that was passing through his mind was "why wasn’t it hurting more... why wasn't it hurting at all?" As another moment passed, it seemed he did not care about that anymore either. As though the blood leaving his body contained all the worries this world held. He glanced down again, puzzled expression passing over his face. A sudden exhaustion gripped him like nothing he’d ever felt. “Tired... very tired” he slowly sat down, one hand still uselessly held to his side, the other steadying himself. “Just a quick rest… and… then I’ll decide what to… do.” The words no more than a ****** mumble trailing off to nowhere. God, but he had never felt so tired. It took a tremendous amount of effort just to keep his eyes open. Jakith wavered and began to slump forward, but caught himself “Wait… Wait… Wait...” the words were losing all meaning, wait for what? Jakith slumped again, this time his arm collapsed, he teetered over, nose and cheek crunching into the ground, the weight of his body plowing his face through the blood leaving him in an awkward heap. “Wait…” the word bubbling crimson, cheek flattened against the stone, breath rippling across the pool. There was something important he needed to remember, but it was slipping from his mind, passing into what seemed like some long forgotten memory. The farm, the earthy smell of the green house, the fields sweet with the sent of harvest, could that be what it was? “No, no… I need to…” The crunch of snow beneath his feet, the crisp mountain air, the sun kissing his face, his father’s easy smile and the way his sister would tease him. Jakith felt the ground falling out from beneath him, like when he was young and would catch himself falling asleep, jolting awake. But there was no jolt, just his body slowly relaxing on the stone, blood silently meandering through the cobbles. Jakith tried to pull himself back from the breech, one last attempt to hold on. If he could just hold on, hold on and stay for another sweet moment, please just one more. Then, as though his soul had been anchored to the setting sun, it ripped him into the abyss, all encompassing. A final chuckle croaked from his half smiling lips, as dazzling colors and a thousand half remembered memories flashed across his minds eye. The hollow pang of absolution, there was nothing, he would be nothing, and then... he felt home. The last thing that crossed his mind before the blackness swallowed him completely, “Is... that... you... mom...?”

A sky full of stars is only seen in the darkest of lights. . .
And there is so much sense to make out of that
But I cant explain it
Write it down
As it drains it

Of its unhuman like complexity
As everything in life is merely a reflection of its essence
The universe is a reflection of the atoms in your cells
And it's so complex yet so simple
If you dont explain it
It's so simple

Sink into it
As it is what we define as truth
It is the essence
It is the core
And it is within you

Observe and listen
And let it be

And what shall happen
Shall be

And we might be as harmonious as the blue sky and the sea
As the stars shining at night in the dessert

Or we might just be a passing like the weather.

A veiled threat,
a muffled cry. It was not human.

No beast, no monster
yet unhuman.

The feel of wolf's
lair, was there in dark.
Anything would happen.

You wanted to become
a self-proclaimed divine Being.
Yet, you were not a god.

A black pit opens. Do not shout.
The clogged artery had bursted.

I give you back your city
you can scale the high wall
and jump into eternity.