Arrested

Stay near to me, my dear friend,
Where my words might reach you,
Where my eyes may see you.

For freshly thawed is this,
My precious loneliness,
A mess of puddles now.

Drenched, sighing, muffled sounds,
Set loose the air of relief.

Yet still, I stay my feet,
Behind bars of grey conceit,
Still whispering to me,
The distance I might fall,
If I let anyone in,
Anyone at all,
Or dare to escape,
And blindly move on.

Stay near to me, my precious dawn,
Stay near.

Drawn

As long as the hills stretch,
So long shall our reach grow.
As smooth as the hills roll,
So smooth shall our strides go.
As far as the horizon rests,
As ceaseless the sun sets,
Such distance our dreams met,
Persistence, our hearts suggest.
As light as the clouds lie,
So light shall our souls be.
As free as the rain falls,
So too, we set control free.
For never shall we arrive,
And pray never to retire,
As the purpose of our lives,
Is the motion of desire.

Field of Home

How far you’ve wandered,
Tempted as Helen was,
Or, stolen away,
Yet, returned to us.
How fare you glow now,
In this simple, summer day,
Bled of excess, outstretched;
Clothed in skin and sunlight.
Stay as long as you like,
There is no time here.
As sure as rain shall fall,
Or rivers flow,
Forever stands our home,
Enchanted by distance,
Forgotten with fondness,
Attuned by silent musicians.

Frame

It is with breath
That we draw inward,
And, with relief,
Release our hold.
Yet, some of us remain,
Clutching our chest,
And curling comfortably
Around our fires.
We nestle like infants,
As our spirits grow
Within our veins
And through our minds.
A child of wonder,
We see all anew.
Dazzling lights,
Lovely thoughts.
Until, at once we see
Within, we are trapped
Docile and paralyzed,
Begging to exhale.

A Whisper

Do you believe,
that gods can bleed?
Have you seen enough,
to conceive of,
divine mortality?
What would it mean for us?
We who must develop love
Of vulnerability,
Of blood,
Of death.
All so we may draw
our final breath in peace,
with our minds,
and our dreams,
drifting
in the cosmic seas
of infinite night,
and lovely,
lonely starlight.

Inward

He’s given too much to rumination.
A little too quick to trust concentration;
however misplaced, dull and graceless,
a soul in stasis as he passively paces.
Shapeless he coils
Into an infinite past.
A shame, if this time
were to be his last.
He may never come back.
He may run off the tracks.
He just might slip right through the cracks.
That quiet one,
who never laughs,
with eyes like shattered glass.