it is—it is not worth it,
says the girl upon the tree,
to try to stop my climbing—
I came to this place free.
I will love you like no other,
says the rope upon the tree,
you will feel it, kicking, gasping—
just a larger death for thee.
oh, here is food a-plenty,
say the crows upon the tree,
and deep here in the forest,
this meal no men will see.
This could have two meanings, and either one fits,
but both leave things lost in translation;
my thoughts are in circles, my notes are in bits—
were I smart, I would take a vacation.
Happy endings comfort, but are not always wise;
'Twould serve you well to keep in mind: the hero sometimes dies.
in the ashes, in the half-notes and the slow unsynchronizing
of the orchestra you barely knew was there. in the haze and on the wind,
in the silence, under dimming moons, collecting echoes. shaping echoes.
shaping words.
a golden thread, a hagstone,
and a needle made of bone,
one for fetching, one for catching,
and one to keep your own
written on all of the crumbling walls
is a message scratched into the clay:
"my love, I'll be with you when babylon falls,
and that day, I swear, is today."
I am drained; there is no pleasure
to be had in endless leisure; to be too asleep to dream
and yet to all contented seem.
no false gods. no powers above us.
this is how we remake the world;
we whisper our own lie,
and the universe echoes it forever.
no glory. you do your job
sweeping loose ends, cutting out bonds,
choking out weeds. no glory.
you do your job.
I'm not used to the light yet, as one burned by suns not mine,
as one come to love the darkness and to fear the things that shine.
so long I feared the open, and the smiling, and the day,
and little bits of warmth that tried to burn me clean away.
and the night has light a-plenty; there are stars that silent stare.
though they never lasted long, they made it easier to bear
for but a time. and when they left I sank back into grief—
why was it that everything I loved was so damn brief?
and why did no one see me, in the shadows, all alone
and offer me a torch—a match—some flick'ring of my own—
and hide me from the sunlight but not from the kinder skies
and tell me that one day I'd watch far better suns arise?
no one wrapped me in a blanket of the warmth I was denied.
no one earned the trust to make me feel I did not have to hide.
and now I sit in sunlight; I am loved and love in turn.
it's a joyous thing—to leave the shade for light that does not burn—
but I never learned to trust it, and I don't know how to start,
and I am still a creature of the darkness, in my heart.
oh, lift your lantern higher, child;
my sight's seen better days.
so you've traveled through the forest wild,
to where my cottage lays?
and why? ah, yes, I understand.
I've known such folk as those.
they think you something to command,
to cook, to mend their clothes...
they mean for me to eat you? ha,
that just shows what they know.
suspicion is a human flaw,
but past it you can grow.
so stay and be a witch, my dear;
they will not know their loss.
I'll teach you to command their fear.
a witch, one does not cross.
it's nice. I mean, it's like a kind of peace,
to start out far into the darkened sky
and let the thunder rolling pass you by.
exhale. release your breath and let thought cease.
and inhale. the rain is coming down fast;
the sky is streaked with light and tastes so clear,
like early mornings of a distant year.
it's nice. I mean, I feel I'm home at last.
there's a difference, says the poet,
between spotlights and held lamps,
illuminating accusation and a guide to point the way,
harsh glare and a warm embrace.
I couldn't see if I was gaining ground;
small inches were all I ever found
and that was how I spent my days
a pen lost in a paper maze.
all the world is filtered blue;
the shade of someone younger's skies
has come to haunt me now again.
it gently clouds over my eyes
and shows me dusty sights anew—
oh, to have that long-lost 'when,'
to once more know what might be true
and not to see the world through lies.
spiders for the woven strings
voices for the songs one sings
veils to cover all wrong eyes
dead men for attracting flies
we touch so briefly, ere we die,
for some bare moments in the dark
before each finger brushes by,
and each one, passing, leaves a mark.
tragedy's not for the fools;
we would mock their sorry plight.
but you—a hero—clever—
it's sad because you did things right.
it's sad because you knew the rules.
fly down, o fledgling, my darling, my dear;
you won't lack a nest if you settle right here.
you won't need to travel; you won't need to fear.
let's take a blade to your feathers now, love.
I'd not send you flying like some common dove;
I'd not let you look on me down from above—
wasted you'd be on the clear blue thereof.
your beauty is suited far better to gold.
o, don't be so cautious, o, don't be so cold.
I alone love you enough to withhold
your worth from the cruel world of birds bought and sold
come be mine, fledgling. come fly down near.
There were of course the careless days, but time is made of rolling mist
That eats away safe footing, slakes its thirst on all the self one is.
And it sates itself on smiles, and it wears its victim's bearing.
And the person, fraying, tearing, takes the biting edge's trials
As if to crawl into its graces might make dying less off-putting—
The one you seek, you missed, and missed the passing of his careless days.
But such sweet days they must have been! O, would that I might once have known
Just such a feeling of belonging—it's eluded me so far—
For I was born into a body that came with a broken heart.
It is perhaps the strangest art—its edges are all murk and muddy—
To be a vacant body's scar while you are barely forming.
And so your artifice you hone while chafing in your stolen skin.
And so you wear a mask to cover for a life you do not want,
And answer to a name whose bearer broke and formed your pieces.
You curse him; he had happy times, and then he left the rest to you.
So what's a waking ghost to do? Pay penance for a dead man's crimes?
Or should she do just as she pleases, in the life in which she woke?
Either way, the dead will haunt her, but won't answer what she asks.
Well. I have come to where I stand through such fragmented lives as these,
And in my body buried one whose passing let me enter in
And I have worn his life and answered to the ones he claimed to love,
And in them seen not much to speak of, and have left their house in strife.
I cannot know what wore him thin or what to the end he carried;
I can only dream of peace and careless days I could not understand
they say—and further, claim it's true:
"the sun lays eyes on nothing new."
but I have wandered on this earth
through stories intricate and odd,
and seen not one small thing unflawed.
each sunbright story has its worth,
but needs not awe the sun, just you.
you were told to let it fade,
but touched it up near every day.
small rebellions were enough.
you showed your face. it was enough.
come winter, come the creatures
tiny, seeking warmth.
they hope in cracks and corners, flood the floor, intent
on clinging through the season in a land not meant for them.
come spring, come time for sweeping
the cobwebs and corpses both.
there are days, and there are days
where the ink gets caught in your throat.
where the words die scratching to escape,
and you have nothing.
there are days, and there are days
you don't notice yourself not noticing,
and the hours go blindly by, and the hours go blindly by.