Winter

today,
I want to speak of winter...
of the empty white solitude,
the bone-chilling cold -
a harsh reminder
of what needs to thaw,
the skeletons of trees
dreaming of new forms,
and the silent breeze
feeding fresh lives.

yes, today,
I want to speak of winter;
not of the glory
of autumn or summer,
of the warmth of color and skin,
and the prettiness
of what's obvious;
no, not even of spring
and the bounce and smiles
of things exploding
into themselves
and each other;
for many have spoken
about them.

today,
I want to speak of winter.
of the unspoken,
of the unmet,
where life is on hold,
in the stillness
of a white womb,
yet changing quietly,
with the slowness
and grace
of unseen wheels
turning in the darkness,
and the innocence
of what simply is;

dressed in pure white,
is a mother waiting,
soaking in the harshness,
to feel the warmth
of skin against skin.

yes, today....I killed a man.

yes, today
I killed a man.
a man who lived
inside me,
choking me
with my own hands.
yes, today
I killed a man.
not for the world
to watch,
or weep,
or join in
in the revelry.
I killed him
in the quiet
of my own temple,
where I first lit a lamp
to call in the gods
to stand by me.
yes, today
I thrashed him,
I shook him up,
until he opened
his fear-filled eyes,
so I could gouge them out,
and stabbed his frozen heart
until the dark red
oozed and dripped
onto his dead white skin.
yes, today
I killed a man,
who was spent,
a man who I'd wanted to love
but couldn't.
yes, today
I killed a man,
who didn't need a temple,
for he believed he was god;
who was too ravenous to offer
food for my soul,
and so, I let him go;
yes, today
I killed a man.
I fed the pyre
with the burning logs
of my wounded heart,
and watched them burn
as white became black
and crumbled to grey.
yes, today
I killed a man
with my hands,
as I offered myself
and him,
to the gods.

Endless Wonder

and while the world
watched shadows
play out
in empty fields,
eyes flitting,
unaware,
between
the stolid black
and unreal lights
on misshapen forms,
you and me,
we sat still,
under the vastness
of the night sky
rolled out
for all to see,
our eyes lost
in the endless wonder
of distant stars
dotting
the virgin canopy.

Stories

and we cling to our stories
like leeches
sucking out
every ounce of life,
to live and outlive
the lies we tell ourselves,
the warm blankets we need
on cold, dark nights,
the fires that we light
over and over again
with different travellers
each time,
conversation starters
and sometimes enders,
avatars we incarnate into,
to become the gods
we already are,
even without them;

yes, of course
we need our stories,
to sing our songs,
to dance, to rise,
to fall, to chime in,
to let out
our long-trapped voices
in cracks of stone;

but let's not be bound
by those chains
that slit our wrists,
let's not breathe
their stale, heavy air,
let's not make them
our flesh and bones;
let them live
in the warmth of our skin,
until it's time
to shed their outlived lives,
let's celebrate their death
like the skin of happy bubbles
popping every now and then;
for they are not raging gods
and goddesses
out of incredible myths;
they are but specks of dust
gathering together,
to dance awhile
in a slanting sunbeam
resting upon
the dark
of another unborn morn.