Wolves that circle, mushrooms growing, Threads unspooling in the dark. Are these signs or simple moments, Hidden pieces, fleeting sparks? What of dragons, black and burning, Guarding truths I fear to face? Does their fire cleanse the chaos, Or erase what can't be traced? I dare to ask, I crave the telling. Though censured once for seeking more, I will follow every shadow, Knock on every hidden door. I want to know, to grasp the meaning, To hold the lines and stitch them tight. Even if the answers hurt me, I will bear their blazing light. Will you tell me, shadowed keeper, Of the story yet untold? Will you trust my fragile spirit To embrace what truth unfolds?
Will you tell me, shadowed keeper, Of the threads that run so deep? Why the storm from skies so clearest Brought a pain I cannot keep? Who is Neal, and why the silence, Why the toll of death's refrain? Did his steps shake something fragile? Did he leave more than his name? Who is Farmer Bill, so steady, In the chickens secrets lie And the scruffy men, like echoes— Are they whispers, truth, or lie? Sue, the one with eyes that smile, Blueberries cupped within her hand. Are her dreams a light that lingers In a world I can’t withstand? What of Jill and Jack, the laughter— Was it brittle, was it real? Why the bar and all its shadows? Tell me what it tried to heal. And the old man—cane of sorrow, Bearing weight the world once knew. Is his journey one of endings, Or beginnings yet untrue?
We tread a line of near and far, Two quiet souls with hidden scars. We reach to touch, hold out our hand, Perhaps to sink, maybe to stand. A bridge unbuilt, a rope unthrown, Call to the void, still walk alone. Carefully stitched, the ties we weave, A symphony of "stay" and "leave." You want a friend? Do I not? The heart becomes a tangled knot. Sending signals, guarding sighs, Connection sought beneath disguise.
What is it that calls my name, In voice of tempered steel, Bidding me rise once more To joy and hope and life? What stirs within my secret depths, - delicate and tentative— (Like fairies in the soft dawn light, Arising, waiflike, on the breeze,) While all around my fragile world, Blithe miracles take flight. I float through dreams of Wonderland, As light as mist, yet dark. My toes brush droplets, cold as ice, That burn my tender yearning flesh. And yet my soul sings, bright, alive, As all God's angels dance, - so light - Upon the dawn of toil: The cold, hard day, The grey, dank morn, The bleak and dismal now.
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Outside of Time, the World forgot The ones who, helpless, bear their lot, The poor, the sick, the weak, the old, Beyond the Pale, out in the cold. They trudge through life alone, unseen Burdened by what might have been - But was not. For cruel chance, or fate, Served different meats upon their plate. The hand - rough or gentle, fist or feign - That reaches out to ease their pain, Should know that sometimes reaching back Is far beyond their mortal tack. They cannot touch, they cannot hold They reach and grasp and fail and fold.
What path must I tread, what toll must I pay, To peer through the veil where your midnight thoughts lay? Do keys to your chambers lie buried in stone, Or whispered in echoes, where Embers are sown? Each line a scripture, each word a clue, Did we sculpt this story, or did it sculpt you? A prelude of anguish, a seed without name, Burst forth unbidden, yet burned just the same. Yet hear me now, in the shadow of the sun, In the stillness of dawn where the wild ones run. I carry a hymn, soft and forlorn, A beacon that breaks where cold night is torn. I’m here beside you, in Ember’s embrace, Through wilderness vast, as we find our place. No stumble’s in vain, no song is unheard— Our souls intertwined in the ache of our words.
We don’t like to be hurt by those we hold dear, Their words or their silence, their closeness, their fear. We seek to escape it, this ache in our chest, But what is this feeling, this unbidden guest? It pulses in waves, like the rhythm of breath, A dance between life and the shadow of death. Awareness eludes us, we rise, then we fall, In the in-between balance, we answer the call. The bruises are lessons, though painful to learn, Each scar is a lantern, each wound helps discern That suffering whispers a truth we must see— To love without chains is to set ourselves free. Do not explain pain; let its story unfold, Its power diminishes when too tightly told. Describe it, not tame it; let it burn through, And rise from its ashes, made brighter, made new. For in hurt is redemption, in suffering, grace, A mirror reflecting a tenderer space. To feel is to grow, to grow is to be, And in every heartbeat, there’s eternity.
I hear a song, a lonely song, That echoes over wood and vale, A tune that's sung by longing heart, And pleads the world to pause, be still. Yet none will hear—they rush ahead To feed their children, tend their kin. They do not stop; they dare not pause, With steadfast strides and solemn grins. Yet here, where all our children play In lands that time has still to find, Where trees embrace and daisies Bloom, And laughter falls like morning dew— (The games they play are pure and true.) (The games they play are pure and true.) Up through the haze of memory's veil, Hope rises, shining, soft, sublime. We learn new paths, on unworn ground— To walk, to run, to fall, to climb.
