I brought her to the water by the moon,
To share with her, the shade beside the sea,
I gave to her my eyes, that she might see,
and sang to her the most afflicted tune.

I prayed of her what she might ever do,
When faced with all the mightiest would fear,
She whispered, through a solitary tear,
A crystal verse to stay her last adieu.

When fires of gold have shed their morning light,
When embers fade and only ash remains,
When enemies of old are at the gates,

Do not embrace the darkness of that night,
Or think upon those ashes with disdain,
For all that might remain will share our fate.

after "The Walkers" by John Glenday


In those final moments,
I walked with them
unattached,
no longer one with what is,

a sudden finality ****** upon me,
like so many waves of fire
lapping at a paper boat;

I would never cross this river.

I stop at the bank,
to weigh my worth
and wait,

just downstream of a soldier
flicking his cigarette,
directionless,
one final hiss,
in surrender to the stream.

He couldn't see us
but knew his role,
and a shiver sent him packing
all the same.

I wait,
watching the walkers
gradual dissipation,
each ebbing more
slowly
than the last.

I see them fly
far above the tallest peaks,
lost to my vision
and the insatiable sky,
their light -
scarce as it is,
consumed by the silent stars.

I hear their final cries,
the longing hopeful,
the needy and desperate,
the triumphant and the downtrodden,

I listen to their pleas,
their anguish
and their resolve,
that we might yet heal the world.

Still, I wait
without grief,
and ask only of this humbling river,
how to mend something
that was never whole?

Every bar looks the same
when you live in a cage,
every round rounds out
with a shot and dry snout.

A cold night out
without snow on the pavement,
as truth slowly trickles through the fickle adoration,
and the empty, impatient crowd
is waiting.

The spotlight hits
a white tie on white shirt,
his smile is perfection,
perfected from dirt
through years of tears and blood and lies,
pompous prattle pasteurised.

The spotlight lingers like cheap perfume
from the back of the room
on a white tie and shirt,
handsome as a groom,
he talks with his hands,
his nails, neatly clipped,
are still lined with dirt.

He holds on to hope
for something like bliss,
not quite convinced it even exists,
outside of an incidental kiss,
but the build-up is crucial
to a master crafter,
and the crowd is rapt,
from the floor to the rafters
awaiting their happily ever after.