On flew the bird,
Through bullets
Of rain.
Heavy and fat, on
Tiny bone and wing
Should snap.
Fierce drops try to hammer
Fragile life
To the ground.
Yet,
Unchanged, and elegant,
On she flies.
While I,
Am weighed down.
A thousand cold kisses
Have forced me
To stop.
Against your blue sky.
The warm horizon in the eye.
I will rise.
A darkness sharper than
The most feared nights.
Long after you are gone.
Blood, bones and I are one.
The secret I still keep is that
Number of souls sound asleep
In my arms.
Against your slate grey rain.
Night, eyes close, day again.
I will
Rise.
Through the gate.
My feet and me
Were standing.
In a wide flat field.
Of pale matte green.
Endlessly featureless.
Filling my eyes with
A bladed repetition.
And suddenly it clicked.
For my brain and me.
That I didn’t know
Anything at all.
If I couldn’t even see
The beauty of an
Individual in a crowd.
A thin black shard
Of glimmering glass.
Grew up, stabbing
Through frosted ground.
Alone it stood
For exactly a year.
When another rose
To stand so tall.
They grew in number.
Twelve months each time.
Until one day.
They started to move.
Entwining one another.
Twisting, spinning
Higher and higher.
Forming a trunk.
Cut glass and hard.
Just the very tops
Spikes to the floor.
Hang back down.
And once in ten
Years to the day.
They bloom.
Crystal flowers.
The closest mirror
Of nature
That we can remember.
My foot scuffed soil.
And balance left me.
Low and muddied.
Lying still.
My eyes floated.
Gazing upward.
And a redness swam,
In to my cheeks,
When I saw a tree,
Heavy with crows,
Laughing down at me.
So mortified
Was I.
At their mocking
Beady stare.
I could not move,
Would not stir.
Just staying, waiting
For the ground to swallow.
So let me warn.
That till this very day.
I lie on the forest floor.
Hoping that you will
Pass this way and,
Trip.
And keep me company.
I’m sure when I was here before,
My footprints bent the grass.
Leaving a trail of dying daisies.
This massacre must have angered,
As they are fighting back.
Extra troops have joined the battle.
The vines like snipers in the sky.
Rose thorns stabbing and grabbing.
While nettles go for the fatal sting.
And I am left tangled and failing.
To fall and feed this marching army,
Of green and flowering soldiers.
Its little wings,
Softest brown.
Patterned modest
White and grey.
Flutter frantically,
In stop motion flight.
An imperfect
Forever circling of
Its incandescent god.
Then it Started 