Restore Me to You

Restore me to you,

to how you used to be,

to who you were before.

I don’t like this closing

you’ve imposed

on us.

Little polite smiles

of inattention,

and holding me

as if

you’d just as soon let me go.

Your neck stiffens when I move

to kiss you.

Sometimes you even turn your back,

pretending not to see.

If you are in the process

of cauterizing your love for me,

give me the honesty directly,

instead of the random hints

that hit and hurt like boxers’ jabs.

I will not beg for love from a coward.

Restore me back to us,

when the joy and love in your eyes

at seeing me reflected my own for you.

Restore me to when

we danced and traveled,

played and loved,

and only warred over chess boards,

and sometimes puzzles.

Restore me to when

you diffused and disarmed my temper

with a witty comeback that made us both laugh.

Restore me, or leave the workshop

of our love,

and let it be unfinished.

I’d rather not leave first,

but I’m falling out of love

right behind you.

I can lay my feelings down,

set my affection aside,

and rather you break my heart

than play with it.

The Gold Standard

Aranella spins the gold

’til the dragon story’s told.

Gathering in crease and fold,

summer’s heat turns autumn cold.

Aranella spins the song,

days grow short as nights grow long.

Curses for the midnight gong,

muscles red and sore and strong.

Aranella spins the steel,

so the wyrm be brought to heel.

Kept me long enough, she thinks.

Village blood around her stinks

Hiding with a knowing grin,

hears the difference in her spin.

Doesn’t know how deep she’s in.

He will not let her side win.

Dragon pride’s a fragile thing,

magic swords have blades that sing.

Quench the fire, spill the blood.

Magic a torrential flood.

Aranella dances now,

child of sky and forest bough.

Sword in hand

and rich in gold.

Dragon’s roar no longer bold.

Turns her back and walks away.

War will not be waged today.

Will not war.

The I’s Have It

The I’s have it:

I, individual, feel so

insubstantial,

isolated,

invisible,

inconsequential.

I, individual, want so much to be

important,

invincible,

instrumental,

influential.

I, individual,

don’t know if it’s too late,

robbed of my

innocence,

insouciance,

imperviousness,

imagination

I, individual,

one day to be collected,

dispossessed of my

immortality.

Glimmer

Time passed, love lost.

Love lost, time past.

And so I ask you

now…

Is there a

glimmer

of anything

that once brought a smile,

however small and fleeting,

to your lips?

I felt the cold

inside your shadow

when you turned your back

to leave.

Is there an echo

in your ear

of my heartbeat

where you laid your head

on my chest

and whispered of your love?

Do you now say, in your

calculated callousness,

that not only should we have never been,

but you will act as if we never were?

If my heart was anything to harm you,

it was a kindling you set afire.

You hardened it to break off all vestiges

of love to remake, and rearm yourself

into the bomb you are,

laying waste to those who would dare embrace you.

My own eyes glimmer now,

but whether from the hot rage

or bottomless sadness,

I know not.

Only let the crows come,

and take these wretched eyes,

feasting on the memories of you.

Then I will stumble off

to finish forgetting you,

in the

glimmering

blackness of perpetual night.

The Last of Summer’s Flowers

These are the last of Summer’s flowers.

They watch their season go.

They’re leeched of life and struggle

as their colors fade to ‘no.’

Their perfume is not redolent.

Their vibrant petals curl,

turn into brown and sepia,

then plucked by windy swirl.

The icy winds of winter come,

to see them to their end.

And it will die next to its tree,

and lay next to a friend.

Until the springtime breezes block

the grave-cold winter’s eyes,

the last of summer’s flowers bloom,

themselves a worthy prize.

The Untold

The tales grow brittle,

left untold.

The incantations dry.

The knight, the dragon, and the maid

forgotten, left to die.

The hunter and the quarry

cease their endless chasing games.

And all the wild in all the world,

the silence slowly tames.

The story-laden stars go dark,

the woodland creatures cry.

The lantern-flowers give no light,

and fae no longer fly.

Beware the rift of of magic

separated from the earth.

No warriors to save the day,

just empty, longing dearth.

The stories lay forgotten now

on dusty, splintered shelves,

and we abandon to the void

the better of ourselves.

Small Comforts

Do you yet, even now,

find warmth in the rays of a

persimmon colored sunset?

Do you yet, even now,

find the smoke of your pipe

laden with wisdom, laughter,

and gentle gibes from your companions?

Do you yet, even now,

find hope in a blossom that insists

on growing

through the snow?

Do you yet, even now, hope for love,

or see it from this side as a treasure for

others to find?

Do you yet, even now,

give wan smiles at worn memories

when it rains?

Do you yet, even now,

take small comfort

standing just outside

the circle of light?

To be seen as a shadow

that wants to burn bright.

Take small comfort then,

that those who pass by you

in the middle of the night

do not see you at all.

I Don’t Know What She Did or Said…

I don’t know what she did or said

to make me love her…

Perhaps it was the stacking of

small kindnesses

she did for me.

Or the way she managed to hold my attention

when she looked at me and told me her stories.

Or the sharp wit that made me laugh with her.

Or the day she casually touched my shoulder,

looking down at my screen to see what I would do.

But all I did was like the feel of her hand there.

Or the day I overheard her say she thought I was handsome.

Or the day she smiled at me as she passed and said it to me.

Or the day we had dinner, and I kissed her twice,

and she let me. Twice.

I don’t know what she did or said…

Baby Sees the Teddy Bear

In the crib, baby sees the teddy bear

and smiles.

Baby smells the powders and potions,

feel the soft hands,

hears the songs of the mobile,

sees the soft light,

and feels the warm hope,

laughs at the tickling fingers,

and sees love in his parents’ eyes.

On his deathbed,

grandpa sees the teddy bear.

And then he sees the tubes and machines,

smells the alcohol and disinfectant,

feels the soft tug of bandages,

hears the beeps of the monitors

and sees the indicator lights.

He feels the focused shifting of the painkillers,

and laughs at the fading memories,

seeing the good-bye in his legacy’s eyes.

He takes the bear his grandson gives,

and holds it to his wet cheek,

and smiles.

The Vale of Love

She took him to a quiet place

so beautiful to see.

A place of fragrant flowers,

cool green grass

and fruitful tree.

“Now pledge your love to me,” she said

“And I will pledge to you.”

“I cannot pledge,” he answered

“for my love would prove untrue.”

“What jest is this?” she asked in rage,

her brow now stern and cross.

“I love another, fool. Now go! Begone and take the loss.”

The dagger point just broke his skin.

“The only loss is life, for when we loved

you pledged your heart and promised me to wife.”

“I care not if you love me now.

I will not be a fool, so you will be my husband

til your dotage when you drool.”

He fought her for his lady love,

fought long and hard and rough.

They both were bruised and bloody,

and the scarred skin would get tough.

But in the end, she held his heart

cupped in her broken hands,

and walked and walked and walked with it

to far and distant lands.

And somewhere in the Vail of Love

a heartless man does lie.

For legend says the Vail of Hearts

is where loves go to die.

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