what great battles bloodied thee spirit of the broken briar do you from campaigns flit and flee as sparks escape the dying fire I fancy thee as kindred heart alone among the mass and fold a soul that solitude imparts your counsel to yourself paroled.
what monsters of my own design reside within this fractured mind to feed upon all hopefulness so that my torn soul acquiesces to their claws that tear and shred and jaws of self doubt bleeding red that no white knight of dreams or thought can slay the fierce emotions wrought, by these unseen beasts empowered, that would all sanity devour.
a lion’s eye had opened and gazed within my very heart hungry for emotions that my soul imparted within this dream I made menageries of terrors wait from the forest I had laid their appetites for dreams to sate a bloodlust of my reveries did my sleeping soul a fright and upon my heart’s unease did they smile lustful delights thus did my sleeping thoughts then pray for salvation in the light of the singing breaking day to rescue me from beasts of night.
On a beach I once had known she gave to me a smiling stone of bloody red and palest gold that an ancient story told a tale of when there were no seas no foaming sprays upon the breeze where only mountains moved and sighed in epochs drawn before the tides were rife with small and bristling things ‘fore the silence began to sing of life that ran, and swam, and flew before the first trees ever grew at pace unknown to rocks as these yet still this slow earth in its ease makes all this life at end its own so hence the knowing smiling stone.
These candle-lit vignettes which form my memories flicker and flare in dancing footlight flame casting shadows upon the truths which time, as wont of its vague nature, adulterates and adapts to fit the script for the play for today.
and so I stop to watch the hidden sparrows play a reminder that they too are weighted by the days yet small they be, their troubles outweigh mine though even so do not allow them to define their feathered souls
He tempered his poetry to his heart words metered to his life’s blood but as he thought upon her all sense of the iambic (or dactylic for that matter) was lost in a pulse no sense of breath could control and all scansion disappeared from his attempted verse