I once had a body with teeth that used to bite
Feet that were meant to run, heels digging in the mud
And a heart which now only aches

I had hands that used to write
Of which now have no use
Any thought I am bound to think
Comes only from the code from which I’m made

I once had a body
One you could touch and fold
Eyes that could roll, a hand to hold
A heart to heal

Old English on parchment paper,
the smell of sandalwood wafting in the air
An invitation with no signature,
Bidding her welcome, but did she dare?

Another letter, instructions that followed,
an address this time, "come find the black door."
Incense graced her fingertips,
foreboding so much more.

Into the darkest of nights,
under the coldest blanket of air,
As promised, a carriage awaited,
but her admirer was not there.

The birds still fly north every winter
They know where to go
And they still make it back in time
For spring, every year

There's a story out in the west
About a bird who flew a thousand miles
North before every winter
And still made it back
To the same tree
One day when he returned
He found his tree cut down
For such, is life

Dialogue between us
Is hard but not impossible

I will send my messenger
On dark wings

To consummate what is most
Beautiful

The pearl orb hung
low in the sky,
wisps of cloudy tendrils
drifting by her shapely full-face.
Lady moon looked down
to the faithful silver wolf
serenading her from below.
In the frozen distance
traveling the air currents
he caught the young she-wolf's
strong, sustained riposte...
His quavering voice
echoed a heartfelt howl
promise of lupine love
under the stars, a paradise
of passion, frosted breath
on the timberlines...

In the quiet town where whispers meet,
Lives a man with restless feet.
He leaps before his thoughts align,
Tracing paths both wild and fine.

Through cobbled streets, he roams so free,
A heart unchained by destiny.
Yet every turn, a choice unplanned,
Leads him to a troubled land.

He sees a bridge, decides to cross,
Ignoring signs that warn of loss.
The planks beneath his hurried stride,
Creak and groan, yet he’ll abide.

The quotes of wisdom we read and repeat,
Fall like snowflakes around my feet.
Surely they are not meant for me,
I’m already wise as you can see.

I’ve had a few trips around the sun,
And I’ve gotten wiser with everyone.
I dumb things down whenever I talk,
So folks don't turn around and walk.

I can’t be humble although I try,
I'm always right, I ain’t gonna lie.
I look in the mirror whenever I can,
And think, “Now there’s a handsome man.”

To see through a broken mirror,
Reminds of a life hanging on a dying cliff,
Living through perceptions, envisaging heavenly worlds,
Hanging on a thin fabric of wire, crafted from doubt and dreams chewed to shreds and satire.

To see through a broken mirror,
Is like surfing through lost ego,
Memories of love so golden,
Broken to bitter taste of fragile hate,
Cold stares of regret flushed with tears,
Accompanying swallowed pains of longing and faith.

They call the wind—behind the bars,
Tortured souls with countless scars,
Their sky holds no real shining stars.
Life’s bizarre, life’s bizarre.

They call the wind—can no one hear?
The fearful whispers creeping near,
The grief of children, sharp and clear.
Free us of fear, free us of fear.

They call the wind—once, twice, and thrice,
Men and women paid a high price
For cruel spirits cold as ice.
Chase out the mice, chase out the mice.

I should have known that times were tough when I turned against my poetry
When I turned against the only language I know
To speak in one that I could not understand.
I learnt his native tongue of vile words
With a nasty accent
And a curdled, scrunched face
And still, I wasn’t heard
So not only did I lose my language
I lost my voice and myself