Once, I Knew Myself

Twist and try
I hold the sky when I
Run
And fly to the sun
It's so hard
When part of my heart
Says "stay grounded"
But
Pounding my chest
Isn't exactly
The best
Way to address the problem.

Digging to the source
Of the course
Of the stream
I can't scream in remorse
Only sob in,
Gentle
Internal
Discourse.
Yes, that's what I mean
Because dust
Has no sheen
And I must lie fallow
Rust forms a crust
Over what's green.

So I tried
In beautiful, awful
Suicide of the wide-open
Mind
To embrace the side
Which is kind
But I lied when I turned
My face,
Said "I died"
But I yearned for
A peaceful space.

Sleep comes slowly for the weak.

Revolve your ear
To pick up the signal.

Is it a cry for help?
Is it a lover's laughter?
Is it a sonnet, a prose?
Is it a glorious opera?
Is it a breeze rustling the trees' leaves?

Does it bite?
Does it sting?
Does it fight?
Does it ring?
Does it call?
Does it sing?

No matter,
It is now yours
Now and forever.

For music is but one language with many dialects.

Brandish not your mind as a weapon; it will then no longer function as a tool.

Trust My Baby

I'll tell you why baby's crying
She's crying for
The land she's lost
By trust.

I'll tell you why baby's crying
She's crying for
A mother's love
A mother gone
For serving the man.

I'll tell you why baby's crying
She weeps for
Hope crushed by
Her own red-faced contrition

Brings swift opposition.

What does a glass priest do?
He composes an ode to fragility.

What does an iron soldier do?
He learns to love with his weapon.

And what will become of me?
For I am a glass heart trapped in an iron body . . .