Stranded absent warnings
or sense of time
Dragons paint history in swirling flame
as the insects swarm us
with hair raising embrace of a million
Their own dreams
are but ash
and deserve no such name
But we are eternal
The surface of the moon
at the bottom of the endless sea
We are written in the tempest
Between life and death
Dreams and reality merge
A whirlpool of waves
shrugging off the frightened
rabbits who turned
from all that we see
While we are enlightened
by tragedy and the passage of years
What we take with us
are mirror shards pocketed
To cut us when we least expect
Miniature swords to fall on and into
Now we pulse as dying stars
Dancing only to our own drum
War faces gather in the fickle light
This piece was based on youth by foxes. I think this is a good example of what happens when the poem sort of, runs off in a different direction like a spooked horse, I’ll probably try a rewrite at some point.
