we gathered in winter

safe or not

we cried to the wind;
“take me away,
because it hurts,
it hurts.
pray, let death take me
by the hand of my own scruples,
for i am the idle product of a pain
that lay to waste in my soul.
suffocating beauty,
a trespasser of agony,
it’s roaring colours of sound,
it’s the glorious façade,
it’s unjustified truth,
and the worst kind of pride.
it’s the selfish struggle that’s
inherent in my nature,
and everything
that’s too much all the time.”

the wind stripped us bare,
like prisoners of a waltz,
like a weeping face against a
forceful shoulder.
with closed fists,
and wounded eyes,
with broken hearts,
and raw hides,
we were filled with ennui.

and the wind replied;
“stack high the sleepers,
labourers,
rebuild your home!
hold fast’ the saddle ye gallant mare,

be brave!
be brave!

oh vulnerable heart,
oh the more tortured soldier;
hear the sound of the drums of war,
and fight with pure spirit,
unafraid of desire.
sora rail of the carolina shore,
birds of a quiet colour;
take flight after courage,
swearing a solemn oath
not to be distracted,
now, in your moment of purpose!
for you are bound on this train
for liberty,
not glory,
to find life with one another.

it’s like discovering accidentally;
the greatness of a small mountain,
the clouded apollo in an alpine meadow (fluture! fluture!)
or the skeleton of a dinosaur
in your own backyard.
it’s the accumulating sense
you are infinite,
to the point of not feeling anything at all
but
the tread of your boot,
young pioneer,
crushing silence
upon silence,
on pain,
upon pain.

they are not your brothers,
but the spurned lies of a hopeless and
naïve romanticism.

so,
safe
or not,
defiant
or not,
nervous
or not,
it’s time.
keep your eyes open.”

when, oh god,
I used to be so sure you had called me
to heal the sick
with the paint on my hands
oh god,
but I felt so inadequate.
and when did i exchange the purpose you gave me
with the ability to draw anxiety instead?
you broke me when you reminded me,
you don’t abandon the weak vessels.
you broke me when you reminded me,
that your peace,
that surpasses my understanding,
will guard my heart and my mind
and I don’t need to feel anxious.
i’ll never feel more than apathetic
when it comes to drawing anxiety
with sticks in the sand,
because I know you fill even the weak vessels with purpose.
lift the weight of my vulnerable heart from my shoulders,
oh god,
save me from myself.
because I’ll never be more
than a kid with a stick
if i don’t seek after you now.
and i just can’t carry this anymore.

To Whom The Earth Is Bountiful

At the dawn of chaos you created me. From the rib of another, from the dust of the earth, you molded me with strong, steady hands.
My fragile mind you made round so that my thoughts may change direction.
My soul you painted white so that the colours of all emotion would refract in the light.
We are not more than a glass house in which are grown the stories of our experience.

Upon first refraction, you held my weeping, infantile body. You allowed my tears to stream down your chest, knowing even before you knit me together that the gift of life is both a blessing and a curse.
You wept alongside me and rested your gentle hand on my back. You whispered to me, “I know… I know.”

With the paint on your hands, you created the sky.
You took the tears I cried out upon your chest and cast them up to the vast blue where forevermore she would, like us, be burdened with the weight of life and lament our secrets to the sea.

My hands you crafted in the likeness of your own, my hands you covered in paint. You held them tight and the world fell quiet around us as the colours of all emotion were created between our fingers.
What was birthed from my rib at the dawn of chaos were the stories of man to be poured out.

But now as the seventh day approaches, I have grown weary.
I defied the paint on your hands, I denied the paint on mine and what joyous gift that once made the world quiet around me has dried to ash on my fingers.

You weep alongside me and rest your gentle hand on my back; you know… you know.
But I can’t suppress a shudder.
The world has taught me to be wary of your love because I did nothing to deserve it and my mind can’t understand why. There’s no such thing as a good man.
The worlds bitter root has been planted in the glass house of me and as you refract through dirty glass walls, the emotions in my soul are brown.
I can no longer hear you over the noise in my mind; the dissonant clanging of fears and rationalizations that endlessly reverberate off the walls…

We are so small here on the earth and I have forgotten where you are.
Tell me…
who are we to you?

We are so small here on the earth and I have forgotten you are good.
Tell me…
what now is the paint on my hands worth?
are we really capable of love?

With the paint on your hands you created the earth and from the earth you formed me.
But as the seventh day approaches I pray; return me home. To young soil, return me.

I have grown old and sorrow isn’t enough anymore to keep the paint from drying on my fingers.
So Father, if you’re still listening;
please don’t give up on me.
We are so small here on the earth and I’m afraid every generation is a lost one.
Father… find me.
If you’re still listening;
saturate me with clean colours, get me out of me.

If you’re still listening;
please…