Eloquence she came a ride
motions of her haughty stride
grinning from the inner lies
that tread aneath her feet;
stars all shewn a darkened eye
the silent wings that do not fly
the strength of resolve within her cry
as she leads the bands of march;
and others too have words hearsay
the world a game for them to play
this is for you, they like to say
peace and safety on a rope.
We are here for but a short while
where leaves all fall come spring
cold winds dance through summer
and the birds all die and sing,
we leave birth to start anew
to pave out broken feet
to strive an age old path
to cry at our defeat,
and here we gain such pride
such a lofty attitude
walking the road of many
with its teasing and allude.
The darkness dank and creeping so
reaching in to scratch the soul
mists from deep within the soil;
drags the moist and undead limb.
Standing tall the orchard moans
cracking Earth dark undertones
writhing cries from the witchy crones;
tapping the red mans horn.
These are the night of the flitting dream
where the thick of dark in horror scream
consciousness caught in a fluttering stream;
as a fly, is to the web.
Was the moon on high upon the graze
that day in autumn full
two tender hearts came swooning down
gently upon the trodden moors,
perhaps the breeze upon ones face
kissing a gentle blue
or maybe just the lingering note
of the whimpering that had ensued.
The weeks go by day by day
and mother knows what is not right
for the child she once knew so happy
was not the same filled with delight,
then that tragic moment fell
and the pain was a deep dark sting
mother knew what must be done
for the child
was a changeling.
There are times I have seen
where the stars lack in there luster
water just isn’t wet enough
and food can taste quite bland
even color is just a hue
and music a wavering empty note.
It is here that I am sitting
alone in some hazy lit room
looking through a piece of glass
reflecting on the illusion before me.
How I wish so very much
knuckles pressured white
lips pressed with indignation
and the brows rest in question
at the subtle ticks of passing bye.
In the field just across the way
there’s a place not far off or so they say,
where the moon does skew the dark
and the breeze is riddled in low remark,
children dance beneath the waves
dreaming over sunny days,
the clouds a prance in funny faces
and movement stirs from other places;
so here it is the grand of grandeur.
She enters in and lights the way
the fairy giggle and flutter in play,
a gutted bleat sings from the pan
digging his hoof at where he stand,
and again the wee hours of the morn
move through the veil now tarried and worn,
shining through to another day
showing new memories for the same old way.