There was a time when I once loved Winter,
its glittering flakes,
its snow covered lakes.
I once dreamed of cold winter nights,
thick folds of a quilt,
stitched with care.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
this has now changed,
now I know of the sunflower,
I had known of it,
but never its name.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
but no more,
I now thirst for Spring,
where the chill cannot find me.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
now I love only spring,
no need for the burden of cloth.

There was a time when I once loved Winter,
I hope one day the sunflower may know of impending warmth,
so thus I pray,
she may bloom without fear of Winter.

Flickering flame,
languishing light,
beating upon wooden frame,
a forgotten story,
lost from sight.

One day they were here,
the next they were gone,
they were extinguished out of fear,
no longer can they sing,
they've forgotten the song.

In a way they were innocent,
in a way they were wrong,
their ideals were incandescent,
their trials afterward,
long.

And still,
when they are found in other places,
they are held against their will,
but then again,
is this not true in all cases?

Forever have I feared the lashing,
the deep cut of criticism,
a stroke from the heart of man,
afraid of his own shadow,
observations cut from the cloth of reflective lack of sight.

Man speaks from behind a thin veneer of authority,
a broken vessel,
water spilling from the spaces between his teeth,
lies pressed tight against cheek,
silver tongue writhing against insecurities,
ignorance and misguided intentions.

Like a crown of thorns,
the oppression of shame,
of mistakes,
and obscenities from out of the mouth of babes,
a magnet to muddied words,
wrought of sovereignty,
guided by prints and yardsticks,
lines drawn with precision,
written with a pencil shaped sweetly,
with razor blades,
points at each end.

Sin,
a note from the reed of Christianity,
righteous indignation,
against riotous insinuations,
he is a good Christian,
well intentioned,
but lacking in charity,
though child of God still,
be it in name or idea,
abstraction or guiding hand,
and he would have others feel shame,
for misery so loves his company,
despite never wishing to feel the same,
seething with fear at his own visage,
afraid of his reflection.

I have no objections to his words,
no bulwark against the sting,
the sharp ring of truth,
half or full,
in my stomach up to the guard,
I have nothing to say on moral relativity,
I have only this to say to your inquiry:

I will apologize for my actions,
but I will not apologize for who I am,
for I am a friend to agency,
and have no lack of ambition.

My perspective is broken,
I have no opinion,
no political theory,
nothing upon which to stand.
I find myself lost,
not enough information to inform the rest,
the ignorant masses,
the proletariat.
I myself am ignorant,
and ignorance isn't bliss,
I don't know for certain if God exists,
but truthfully that's my greatest wish.
I've locked myself away,
afraid of taking a side,
afraid of playing the fool,
but I'm working my way out.
But, perhaps that's it,
that's the truth of all things,
life is a work in progress,
the truth itself is bottomless.
The vault reaches infinitely in both directions,
seek the future and the present,
not the past,
faith without works will not outlast.

Flag-bearers,
one and all,
a white flag held,
pallid and proud.

Hold high that banner,
straighten your stance,
temper with faith,
and steady your pace.

Remember your promises,
lock and key,
remember your promises,
they remember you.

Hold high that banner,
though the task is difficult,
the going is tough,
and it only gets harder,
trudging through lengths of mud,
that only get longer.

Over tight-rope,
across coal and flame,
under hammer and pen,
remember who you are,
and your burden will be lightened.
as you reach the end.

I walk along the shoreline,
wind blowing through the south-side trees,
around my face streams a familiar scent,
the smell of fresh pine.

This lake is one of many,
the North is a wonderful time,
crime is negligible,
the people are not many.

Whispers come rustling through the leaves,
they tell me stories,
of love and of glory,
they tell of a long lost people.

They are my people is some ways,
we are interconnected,
strung together on the strings,
the same dichotomy.

I wonder if they're watching me now,
are they weeping for their loss,
or are they rejoicing in my freedom,
yes,
this is our kingdom.

The language of love,
it isn't French,
the language of love,
it's action.