The real warrior lives and dies each moment,
Every second a miracle disarmed; a holy war, a teardrop,
A noble death, a loving gesture.
No time to pause, no way to forestall
The unfolding jewels on a string;
Colourful the beads that reflect such a transient marvel.
Who wields the sword? Who cuts the air?
Swept divine expressions over black canvas.
The sharpest edge enlightens the heathens vision,
A feast of showering, porous sparks.
Within plains of hollowed out time
The lonesome moon grows and deepens;
Filled with melancholy when looking upstream,
On the river, in the flow.
Leading us lightly and lucid,
Whittling circles to untraceable homes.
We stream together
Falling through the cracks we create,
Past the bows of fabled oaks;
In forgotten majesty we are expanding,
The weight of a white feather
And no more.
Passing through unknowable feats scented
With barley and iron,
Across the ripple lake sentence,
Out of sight.
The mighty firs stoop to take a peek
This alternate nature enacted,
Little wren is busy, not hidden from delight
Or far from the fields where a family feud
Returned life to the soil.
Not to remember one breath
Or wrap one self in what may come,
Breath comes and goes, without force,
All is one.
Real warrior, born without;
Swallow the sun, turn back to reality;
In light, far from the cries of sanity.