sunrise over swamps

sunset over melancholy seas

Poem 30 of 30

It had to end, somehow.

It was a closeness too close to be sustained

without it falling in one direction or another.


To become as one, one mind, one flesh,

to be forever bound in soul and spirit:

impossible for mortal fools who stepped already onto such a path

never to find a second chance to turn back and start over.

To diverge somewhere along the way:

necessary for the one who let her heart be won over

by the words of a new voice that had no place to speak but

who whispered thoughts of love into her ear.


There’s the dead end. The barrier at the edge of the path

and she sees its full warning and declaration:

to forge ahead is to find adventure, a new zeal for life and unmarked territory

but one plagued by curses of death and disease.

To climb the wall is to accept certain suffering

for no good reason.


There’s the end point, and the only answer:

it’s not good enough to throw oneself off the cliff’s edge

for though the fall is exhilarating,

she will meet her end impaled on the jagged rocks

and the blood that will be shed

is too significant and too important to waste in a violent libation to the earth.


She watches the moon rise and thinks of him,

the sunset and thinks of him.

His name plays endlessly on her mind

until she is sick from the thought of him

and the knowledge that somewhere, now,

at any moment she lets her heart rest on him

he is not thinking of her.


Silence reigns over her and she is afraid to speak

lest the deepest recesses of the darkness that plagues her

finds voice and gives away the secrets.

There is only one who can know, and it’s not him,

it’s another one,

one who alone can carry her dark thoughts away

and exchange them for light:

pure light, greater than she can perceive

until all the curses woven into her body

are burned away.



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Poem 21 of 30

Refresh this mind of mine, in all its weariness.

Replace this heart of mine: grant me flesh for stone.

Take these thoughts of mine, so dark and twisted:

so that my mind can think of beauty again.




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Poem 15 of 30

We are the In-Between:

caught at the halfway point between death and life.

Halfway between the sadness of suffering and the joy of peace.

We see beauty marred by evil,

good tainted by filth,

and in sorrow we yet hope.


We are the Not-Yet-There:

journeying toward a bright point in a distant place.

We are travellers from an ancient land,

but we lost the way to our home.

So we fumble onwards

and wonder when the end will come.


Let us take hope in our low position,

knowing that the poor will be fed,

and the naked clothed.

Knowing that the innocent will be freed,

and the lost will be granted a guide

to lead them along the way.

This, the world yet to come,

is revealed to us in fragments and hints.


It is not fully here

but we see the whispers of it

with every tear shed,

with every time we choose

the path of peace.


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