Poetry

the detour

11:39 PM

I walked among the tombs tonight,
Just for a change, to wend my way,
And on each grave shone fairy lights
Lit from the sunbeams of the day.

I chose a path not often walked
To test my surety of step,
And hide my face from human talk
And cloak the human tears I wept.

The night wind called my name aloud.
Absent voices cried a warning.
I was alone amidst the crowd,
My heart within a burial shroud.
Yet purpose clear, and spirit proud,
I pressed onward, towards the morning.

Poetry

brave enough

11:54 PM

I have the courage to fight the war,
and I know the words to call the butterflies.

I've got stamina, and I will follow the golden tail of a meteor
Until it plummets into the sea.
I can hold the breath in my lungs until I reach the ocean floor.

My words are smooth.
I have reasoned with the mermaids,
the silver creatures who drown the souls of men
 and leave their bodies to rise again to the surface.

My heart is strong,
but soft enough to sense the murmuring of the white stags,
and my feet are swift to follow.

The woods no longer call me the way they used to,
and the mountains have grown silent.
My footsteps no longer echo,
and my shadow has returned to its home.

My foes surround me,
relentless,
waiting to claim my being.

All is silence.
Much has been lost.

Why must there always be dragons?



I am brave enough.

Writer's Brain

words written in a coffee shop, a year and a month ago

3:20 PM

There is a dragon, fighting a mother-of-pearl unicorn, outside my bedroom window. The trees groan, trying to bear the weight of the brawl. The leaves flutter to the ground, quickly forgotten consequences of the war above.

The dragon breathes fire and its claws are silver with unicorn blood. Yet its foe is unharmed, the unicorn horn glistening like the trophy of a battle already won.

I cannot choose sides, for that would be to make an enemy of myself. I am both adversaries, and it is myself who wars.

Reason, like a dragon of fury, quick to draw blood and destroy, is after the unicorn of my dreams, a thing of beauty that is not meant for battle. But it is armed with a weapon sharper than glass, able to pierce the heart of logic at the slightest provocation.

They battle today and they will battle tomorrow. And all I can do is watch, and mourn, and celebrate both the victor and the vanquished. I know that neither will ever win, but that they will war, on and on, until the creases around my mouth have deepened, and the wrinkles hide my eyes, and I am crowned with immortality.

It is a losing battle, and yet I am the victor.