The time of the shining of
Wind-summered grasses, has passed,
-To the lark-breast mottle-
The harvested skin of the
Senescent land

The candle-****** gutter of
Hurrying wing sees
The last of the coin
That was minted in thatches
Of deepwood
Of latticing bramble
Of crumbling eve.

The mourn of the Moorland
Has  feathered a will
With the clot of the Ash,
Where a heather of cinnabar
Freckles the splash of
a simmering tarn

As gravelling Easterlies
Peel the cling of
The verdigris fades,
Some twilight of sepia
Musters the pastel
of Wintering calm.

I think
I write
For one reason......
Not me;
You!!!

My queen is made of flesh and bone
She walks through dreams in our nightmarish home
My queen has heart
My queen has soul
My queen has pain
She has my love

I could never dream
Without her
Just a lonely king
An empty empire

My queen could be anywhere lost in this world
But still carry me with her
My queen has skin
My queen has feet
My queen has hands
She touches me

Her truth much more
Than a thought to me
She's my home
My reality

My queen cries
And I cry with her
Still when she smiles
I know

I take your hand and guide you through the fire
I walk with you
Aware as I can be that I'll only get burned
That my skin as ash and my bones as coal
Will no longer be beautiful
I take your hand
And watch as madmen fall in love with you
And you feel their love
Knowing they only bring abyss
For you to fall in and die as horribly as any sinner did
I watch
The eyes of a savior knowing
Angels can't exist without some demon to fight against
Some feeling from before
When man was animal
And instincts are primal
They know your skin but not your heart
Your voice but not your song
Your eyes
My endless skies
To fly through
Or endless oceans
To drown in
Not knowing how to swim
I take your hand
Knowing I can hold it better
Reading lines across your palms
Love as shining alms
Love
I take your hand
And fall when you're falling
And rise when your rising
Walking through gardens
As evil surrounds your halo

I was seven,
But it wasn't a toy passed through a gap in the fence by a hand
And a face unseen,
It was blood,
Blood pouring from my mouth and painting my shirt crimson
Staining the ground in puddles and rivers;
The terrified looks that the teachers wore
I was awake and alive and dying
They saw me dying,
And it must have been a dream because I couldn't feel pain,
But I still have the scars

I was seven when the child I knew was lost
But it wasn't growing up it was caving in and carving my pain in stone
As the buzzards circle
It was blood
My blood of disbelief that any god could let a curse as such exist
Painting my mind black only;
Fertile ground where the devil plays
I was cold and cruel and unfeeling
I was dying
For the very first time I was a man without a heartbeat,
But still with dreams

I was seven when the games I played could not be won
But it wasn't because the sky is never ending
It was confining limitations and clouds
It was blood
My blood boiling, my seething disposition, my nightmares
That taught me how to hate;
Emptiness being made full by poison
In my fingers and veins and my hurting heart
I was dying
Shouting obscenities to the heavens where no god was found
But still hoping he would hear

I was seven