To Our True Forms

A stranger
Waits for me in the north;
Unraveled
To her truest form

We speak unsweetened,
In winding ribbons of ink
Stretched over
The ranges of our past

We speak unafraid
Exchanged as we are,
Minced and raw,
But doomed to be freed
From this sultry spell

Advertisements

An Interlude Between Storms

An interlude softly chimes
In the back of my mind
Its melody
Nudging me
Along
Through the day

An interlude
In the heart of a lifelong war;
Such fragile hours
I am meant to safeguard

This melody
Is a tireless cyclone
It spirals throughout me,
Coloring
Today’s blank slate

A Prayer Before Dusk

Save him
From the evils he’s spawned
From the claws of the beast
Soon to scratch at his door

Save the long-lost hero
Who fights in his shadow;
Betrayed and diminished,
Left to fester and rot

Sever the rope
Tied and taut
Wound around his burning throat
By his own scheming hands

Let him fall to his knees
Let him rise to his feet
Before the night closes in

Rusted Nails

I will do what I can
With the few rusted nails I have;
Boarding up an old life
Until the draft dissipates

I will do what I can,
Undaunted and mad
Forever chased by the past

I will do what I must
Amid the jeers of the wind,
Enduring its shrapnel;
Flying for me,
Deranged

I’ll do what I can
With the few loose screws I have
That rattle somewhere within

Stalled in the Void

I know nothing of Nightingales;
Their sweetened songs
That swell to their might
In the gathering dark

I know nothing of revolt,
Of its triumphant banners;
How they’re charred and maimed
When a nation is born

I know nothing at all;
Sailing through a pitch black void
Without a voice
Without a name
Without a source

Free to take off
In any vessel I graze,
Or to mindlessly stall,
Unloved in the abyss

Spellbound and Tattered

A pack of rabid dogs
Had their fun
With my frayed remains
When the night was young

I’ve awakened,
In a crimson haze;
My terrified eyes spellbound
By the glaring horizon

Now the cries of the pack
Fill the blood red skies;
Wildly snarling
And baying,
For more

A Quickening Pulse

A phantom rhythm has spawned;
Rising somewhere in the land
A call to arms
The alarm has sounded

The alarm has sounded,
Awakening the drums
And daring the frightened
To unsheathed and stride

The alarm has sounded ,
Cry out in your rage
In your tireless verse
Of jubilation or pain

Draw out the mobs,
Let them blaze the world over
With the endless quake
Of one defiant song

Precious Cargo

Hungry and on the run
With holes in her jacket
With danger on the prowl,
Throughout her haunted mind

A calling never wavers
Its pulse never wanes
It remains
At the bottom
Of her ragged knapsack

It is folded and yellowed,
Awaiting sunrise
When the earth is most fertile,
When the all-clear is rung