I dwell on false lanterns that lied of my fate
the fate I would face at the changing of wind
such winds blew as my love sat with me so late
so late there we sat, exposèd and winged
my wings could not help me when came the masked men
the men stopped; I froze like a butterfly pinned
pinned between foes and a bridge with no end
our end was before us; this was our last stand
and stand did my lover before them and said:
"you've said you will take him, and this you have planned,
but I've other plans and I'll fight if I must.
I must keep him safe by my word and my hand."
and hand raised, the man closest at him did thrust
my love was cut through, and before me he fell
I fell to the men, and he fell to the rust
and I rust away in these bonds, in this cell
torn to the core, alone with guilt's weight
and on my love's terrible death here I dwell
I'm older now than he was when we met,
Yet still I somehow feel more like a child,
Although of course the march of time is set:
I'm older now than he was when we met.
The poet I am now was still not yet
When once I looked upon his words and smiled.
I'm older now than he was when we met,
Yet still I somehow feel more like a child.
spread across the sky six-hundredspan
wings of no bird ever seen by man
as its thousand eyes attentive scan
and hear we now below
overtures of its abhorrent plan
whose end we cannot know
I was alone
between stone, sky,
my own safety—
and was free there
with nothing between myself and air
my name is moth
and when I'm near
my favorite flame
I do not fear;
I do not burn.
he is my bright,
and I his love.
I kiss the light.
"I've seen your tears, o heart of mine,
darling, sweet thing, poor and pitied.
you have lost your cheerful shine.
for whose pleasure do you bleed?
"darling, sweet thing, poor and pitied,
your face is pale; your eyes look far.
for whose pleasure do you bleed?
why does fear your beauty mar?"
"your face is pale; your eyes look far.
rumors have obscured your vision.
why does fear your beauty mar?
I'll not stand for this derision.
"rumors have obscured your vision;
only thorns my blood have drawn.
I'll not stand for this derision;
I picked a rose in early dawn."
only thorns her blood have drawn,
but her lover waits his turn.
she picked a rose in early dawn,
avoiding truth that she should learn.
eagerly he waits his turn,
but her love is strong and young.
avoiding truth that she should learn,
to the blood she bites her tongue.
oh, your love is strong and young,
darling, sweet thing, poor and pitied.
to the blood you bite your tongue;
for whose pleasure do you bleed?
I carry words for as long as I can
carve them into branches and bone
never release them til I've made them stick
I need to know the world will take them back
there is nothing else. I set my pen on the line.
I breathe in worlds and words. when I exhale, they're mine.
Do you feel it? I love you.
Every outcome that I weighed
When once to this life I was new—
I did not know to be afraid,
Or that you'd be my closest friend.
I did not know I'd lose you, too;
I had not come to understand.
Do you feel it? I love you.
Do you feel it? I love you.
You could have stopped. You could have stayed,
And maybe you'd have made it through.
You could have just accepted aid,
But I could not of you demand
You let them make you someone new.
It was your right to choose your end.
Do you feel it? I love you.
Do you feel it? I love you.
I tried to help as you decayed
And hoped, though hope was far and few.
But you gave to me this blade
When there was nothing left to mend.
And what you meant, I know. I knew,
You cannot build a life on sand.
Do you feel it? I love you.
And this is almost what you planned,
And this is all that I can do.
I promised I would hold your hand.
Do you feel it? I love you.
the seasons are turning; our luck is returning;
the branches of trees start to shudder with life
as slowly the butcher now sharpens his knife
and the house of the roses is burning.
the seasons are turning; our luck is returning;
the ice on the river cracks free and floats by
as lazily birds of prey loop in the sky
and the house of the roses is burning.
the seasons are turning; our luck is returning;
over the land soft grass spreads like a cloak,
and we who stand on it smell guilty with smoke,
and the house of the roses is burning.
in final days it was as though the air was frozen still
to hang over us as
a held breath in the dimming light
to match the breaths we held
and trapped inside the city wall
we few were all there was
alone we tried with heavy heart
to forgive all the dead
the choking comes back when you surface
and you sink back under, nervous.
no more can you hear the beating of wings
and in the water no one sings.
you can hear no singing in silence
no wings can you see up above
and nervous you push yourself deeper
away from the surface you knew
I'd live on kindness, if that were a food,
and if more were kind, if I could hide not,
if you'd not harm me would I not harm you.
but kindness feeds no one. though I am small,
I will take what I can. all are my prey;
head high, unchallenged, I exit this place.
this is a song for the darkness:
I love you far more than the light
you open your arms to all sadness
and I crawl to you rather than fight
rather than fight past my limit.
alone as we are in the vastness,
wrapped in your shadow, I sit
I sit in your silence and comfort and cold
between me and all the world's sharpness
and I can feel safe yet with nothing to hold
with nothing to hold me but darkness.
a marvelous bird, the cuckoo;
with others her children she leaves
and they only know that they're different
as different as feathers and leaves
and they don't quite work like their siblings
from outskirts they watch others play
and try to make sense of the life that
was not made for birds such as they
so many years yet no knowledge I have,
holding to nothing but truth I can speak.
somewhere in deep and safe silence I hear
half-remembered poems these eyes once saw.
you wear the same smile, sometimes;
you get the same look on your face.
but the thoughts in your head now are different
and they come from a different place.
counting seconds, breathing seconds, waiting all as one,
nervous laughter. eyes closed. fear shared thin, held breath thick,
seconds left now. wait.
pending is not penning
waiting is not writing
still. stall. still.
strange, oh, strange and frightening
to be a step from death;
to hear him mumble in his sleep
and shiver at his breath;
to keep him at a distance
as by my own hand I die;
and make him watch me crumble
just to see if he would cry
I stare into the mug, my hands
clamped tight around its heat,
and pretend it isn't bitter—
that it might be even sweet,
or taste strong enough to cover
isolation—but I hear—
some cries from your direction
and unthinking I come near
but in between your screams you shout
and tell me to stay back
as you take yourself to pieces—
tell me, what is it I lack?
I would not willing harm you;
you're so certain that I would
and you will not let me help you
so I'm frozen where I stood
and you're crying, and I'm crying,
and you say to give you space,
and I stand and watch you bleeding
as you try to hide your face.
home is five years later, family still six years out.
patience is not enough; strength is not enough;
you have not reached enough.
home is five years later. be uncertain where you are;
be exposed, on guard. know fear.
in five years you go home.
I am in where there is no fear, smoothing out words on paper.
the hero's made of hero-stuff
but in the end is not enough.
no chance to fix; to fight; atone;
and to their death they fall alone.
the poet sees his land once more; one day is all he gets
to state his case. but no one else shares his regrets
and again his weary head the august sun illuminates
as at last the city swings forever shut its gates.
Look, all you good creatures, on the cautionary few;
Their place should serve as warning to upstanding folks like you.
Should you disappoint us we will make you one of them,
And make their pain your pain. All good men will you condemn.
You will never rise to meet us; we will push you; you will fall;
You will find that life as failures is not much a life at all.