in my heart she calls to me.
my leather-winged angel, nightsky hair shadowing her face,
deep crystal eyes misted with dew or bright and clear as desert sky.
singing soundlessly she walks the endless sandscape, wings thorn-pinned and ragged,
sun bleeding through to form pools of ebon beneath her feet.
mystic shadow patterns paint themselves in her wake,
infinite wisdoms all too quickly lost to the drifting, shifting sea of sand,
while high above the scavengers scream rakes the air.
her cedar wind bathes my soul,
blows through my thoughts with ice-rimmed clarity,
leaving behind only silence and the distant falcons cry.
The sun glows bright behind the night,
My eyes too blind to see,
Until a shining piece of life,
Flips his tail at me.
Crimson wings slice through the doom,
A candle in the dark,
Fanning the fire within my heart,
That last redeeming spark.
crazy is as crazy does, sanity is immensely strained,
turns and twists of clever thought and pointed bits of pain
a straw-maze of impulse, instinct, and ugly gator-mind
tail-mind, the bit they left in when the model was redesigned
the bit that says do this, do that, hurry-hurry-quick
touch this, run from that, feel-feel-feel, it’s a trick!
hurting mind, frightened mind, shuffled dark and deep inside
curled around the tiny self, with nowhere left to hide
the missing why, the awful who, the stabbing pain of what
sliced away, the where and when, with many a jagged cut
acid pain of complicit how, engraved forever on the soul
world seen through filtered lenses, from the bottom of the hole
The common saying…the eyes the window to the soul. Looking in, or looking out? Looking out, I see myself…the me I see that is to me the picture I present to thee. Can never truly see through lenses dusty with greasy dirty thoughts and fingerprints left by the ones who thought they saw you but only saw themselves, tiny and lost, trying to see through their own dirt and dust and prints. Back and forth you both go, you and the world, blur to blur, gaze to gaze. Intensity of stare, trying to see through smeary ghosts of the past, is mistaken for passion, for interest, when simple myopia of the soul is to blame.