The Birth Land.

I walk this heathen path,

With naught but wind by my side,

And perchance you find me going,

Keep aside, keep aside.

For I take no bard on this journey,

This road is not to be sung about,

But a trail to be failed and found,

By those with the heart to hold the stars.

And so you shall see at the level ground,

Where the heaven and hell are smote down,

With the arms as hard as anvils, 

Of souls sought out to save,

Know this free valley, O witness,

This is the kingdom of the brave.


What would I give to be a stranger

To myself

And dip a finger in the gentle nectar

Of my whirlwind mind;

Smooth as a drunk pebble, 

Without edges, without angles,

Skipping across the fallen horizon, 

Like a star amidst cinder,

Soaking smoke and traces, of kingdoms and caverns, alike.

I wonder how my mind would taste,

With all those dreams, sweet as apricot,

With all those desires, burning, 

Bitter regrets lining the base of this vessel,

Sour memories rising as steam.

Mayhaps, It would feel like water,

Like a single sip of wine,

Or tears wrought as ice,

As ashes gone cold through the night.

What would I give to be a stranger?


The way I see the world, 

And hear it’s autumn chattering,

And smell the skin of ages,

And feel the broken fabric,

Like black upon white pages.

What would I give to be a stranger?

I wonder. I so wonder.

The Pathkeeper.

O brother,
Feel free to stand, alone,

By the door,

Of the broken boulevard,

This day, slips neath fingers,

Sore with sunshine, 

And sleepless windows;

Velvet curtains, falling low.

O brother, 

Look around, the world is tending,

Stitching humor,

In all lives,

So take these children, peeking naked,

Out the courtyard,

Into open, like bluejays;

Harping heaven.

O brother,

Show them the halls, of our fathers,

Fading slowly, 

On the walls, threaded stories,

Like a fresco, freshly painted;

With old snow.

O brother, 

Let them wonder, and beware,

Of all the things that seems to be as the things they seem to be,

Treading softly, through the tar,

Shorter steps to travel far.

O brother,

Hold them dear,

Teach them dreaming, and to live,

Not as postcard, but a paper,

Forever speaking words that ought to be whispered out aloud,

In every ear, at all doors,

Beneath all streetlights,

Under all floors.

O brother,

When all is done,

And you waver, old and tired,

White eyed with rust,

Search your pocket, feel the key,

Take a step back,

Set yourself free.