prose

The Sword

I dreamt of a sword
held by a warrior
graceful
yet savage
double edged
in passion forged

she pierces
my heart
and my soul
is cleaved in two

I wake
desiring dreams
of battle.

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My Empty House

a false god once spoke clear to me
poured honey in my ears
sweet and warm and safe was I
comforted from tears
that should have come more easily
to soothe the days long lost
instead as shadowed memory
I wandered like a ghost
haunting the halls of what has been
emotionless and damned
an empty house of half held truths
of who I really am.

Park

In this park there’s poetry
willows cry haikus to the wind
and rainbowed rhododendron
sing ballads old and joyous
to the small birds who come to call
upon the raucous blossoms
but down below
the saddest sonnets
are whispered by the roses
whose blood is spilled
as requiem
to the passioned marches
of forgotten summers.