We are walkers of the dawn
losing direction as the final star
fades from the night sky-
no internal compass to guide us
as we lose sight of the Milky Way

We are balloons children cut loose
to watch soar
above their bedroom window
with the hope one day
they will do the same      

We are billows of smoke formed
from catastrophes in our minds
when our fears take hold
blowing our dreams to smithereens

We are the Harvest Moon
suffocated by the shadow of Earth
starved of the light which reveals
our existence

We revere those we see
as greater than us
sweeping ourselves
under the carpet
no account for our worth

We discount our own gifts
push them aside
underestimating their power
to save others & ourselves

We walk in the shadow
of our demons
so burned by the chains
on our own ankles
we become nothing more
than cinders
where are feet once were

We cry to the moon each night
praying for a miracle
thinking the sky is falling in
& the world ending
before our very eyes

We are all just fragments
delicately placed together
by a maker on the Moon
walking this Earth
too scared to reach
out a hand
and embrace our fellow man

© Sia Jane

You could illuminate as bright as the North Star
but you're settling for a shine as insignificant as
a street light in a crowded city.

the air is heavy tonight
and my heart is an anchor
kissing the feet of my soul
while my lungs begin to swell
beneath the sea of my mind

as the music rings in my ear
mellifluously lingering
reminding me of all the fish
that swim within my spirit
and feed upon my bones

my hands tremor softly
while my skin begins to ripple
as my blood starts to rush
my pulse like an african drum
causing my thoughts to dance

I sink into my bodies’ motion
like a rock thrown into a river
but I sway like a leaf falling
in a somber mid october day

the sounds embrace my head
and as I come back to reality
I see the hell I’ve known
But I see the sun in the moon
and hope to love once again

When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.

the glow of a firefly
reach into the vast darkness
pull her fire from the night
would I glory then
like a star plucked from her nest
as a starling babe
belonging there
what might I
do then?

I don't always want to look back
with a glance
it serves me at times to look back
to the past & stare
Like a stranger, I step into
what is now my history
I become my own present tense
I see a girl transition into a woman
I see her first love, her first heartbreak
I stay in those moments
I absorb them in ways I didn't back then
collecting stories my body still holds
but seeing them with new eyes
letting my myself feel the things
I once feared
Wanting them to fill me, so
I can store them, in memory not scars
I want to sit, whisper & promise my past self
It's going to be okay
because it always has been, &
it always will be
But she's not the one who only needs teaching
I'm the one who needs to learn
As I sit in my history
I sit with pain, knowing
it will serve me.

© Sia Jane

How silly is the little flower
to think that it has such a large impact
on anyone's life.
It's as if it says
"I know I am just a flower
and it's well past the hour
but you picked me from the rest
so I must be the best.
So when I leave,
don't forget me please."

But it's just a little flower
that was chosen for no other reason
than to bring a little bit of happiness.
Yet the flower still speaks,
"I don't understand what you understand
but I know that I am not anything grand.
But it was me that you chose.
You watered me with the hose
and I have grown to be old
but now everything I feel is cold."

Poor little flower,
how long have you been here?
Shivering and shriviling.
But bless your soul you still speak.
"I know some time has passed
since I saw you last.
But I remember your sad smile
and how you had to sit down for awhile.
Your thin white hair has become flat
and I no longer see you sit where you sat."

That small, old flower,
drooped one last time.
With one last sigh
the flower picker spoke.
"I'm sorry little flower
it is well past my hour
and you're as thin as my hair
that has become so brittle without care.
But don't you worry
he is coming in a hurry
and I will not forget you
if you will forget-me-not, too."