They saw her weave
a cross of a martyr's belief
ochre deep strong yet meek
a heart who raises
the dead from sleep
In vain beneath
the falling rain
with a quill dipped in blood
and a word full of peace.

On American sites
people are rehearsed to bark
never ever bite.

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.

are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller

and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones

and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.

the sky weeps white.

but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.


...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)

Even though
time have rendered
her love obsolete
I still live inside
the four walls of my deceit
DE-LETE and re-peat.

Fame blames torture
thrashing by mortar
mother son furore defiled
blameless graves look up and heil
Dictators live while children die.

he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:

“something he knows for sure,
no is no”

I, (19, f)

replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:

“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”

and he says

“yes, ma’am,”

returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots

I like this guy
I like this man.

I give in my soul
empathy sympathy grace
It is my life goal
come hell even high water
I shall not stain your carpet
neither steal a dime
hard Times have it's own reward
the battle is won
gifts to the rich and the ***
therefore your will I succumb