He Lays a Palisade

The reason why
the dad with daughter
have a thing
called she his queen
is not for rule,
but reverence.
A sacred bond,
soft and silent.

The reason
every man
longs to be understood
not by the world,
but by the one
who holds his truth
like a mirror
before time slips
through the fingers.

He shows his mirror,
the soul within
all he’s seen,
all he’s weathered
to the one
before the clock
devours his voice.

He lays a palisade
in his queen’s mind
not of walls,
but wordless strength.
A map of wisdom,
buried quiet.
She walks on,
knowing and unknowing,
a soul that carries
what she cannot name.

He serves her still
a raft in storm,
held together
by devotion.
He knows
he’ll lose.
Yet he bears.
He stays.

Living or gone,
what they never said
still breathes
in silence,
in echoes,
in chaos
they never chose.

And somewhere,
between the storm
and stillness,
his love
remains.

Until the Spring Ball

the farms in the bog form an --


archipelago.

the dog barks two times
i go outside to look see
the hungry bear dies

To end a broken star,
Galaxies twist a turn from afar,
Hearts of lions know where they rest,
Upon the lonely plains,
And to end a place, to dream,
Upon the lilies, resting frogs,
A mouse trapped, stinging bog,
As the bird sings and screams.

March do we, along the ash and cyprus
While contemplating natures of the moor.
So very full of life, and also death.

Briefly glancing round, the bog seems lifeless,
To walk so alert, danger life obscures
March do we, along the ash and cyprus

But after observation, I confess
Quite lively lies our grand mud-soaked detour.
So very full of life, and also death.

Every creature here exudes unkindness,
And any of them might our death ensure.
March do we, along the ash and cyprus

Yet still, I find their number in excess
Than places having more growth, and verdure.
So very full of life, and also death.

So now my new perspective does egress
Much different than it ever did before.
March do we, along the ash and cyprus
So very full of life, and also death.

I am a lake
I am full of turmoil and water
There is thick mud at the bottom
All kinds of things get stuck
There are bodies buried inside me
My chest is full of corpses
I ripple with every disturance
Surface tension broken by those who do not lightly tread
I tend to overflow I tend to spread the bog

The flesh flies buzz on the old bog,
Tattered, forgotten in the forest of tainted dreams.

The foul air, in its humid fever,
Carries the stench of death, and secrets between friends.

The muck, thick and rot with fears,
And time too, seems to lose itself in the swamp's embrace.

I love to sit in the bogs
and listen to the frogs

I love to hear the sound
as they hop upon the ground

Their croaks "music to my ears"
it always brings me to tears

The place I like to romp
inside the darkened swamp