Needles stand like the pikes on a fence, tidied into sweet little lines
and above them I stand on the pricks of their peaks as still as the statue I have been all night.
And caged not in bars but by sheets of frozen rain, tipped over the edge of the sky,
a thousand sheets, more, ten thousand more than before, of that cold and impenetrable ice.
And I have room to breath, to walk, run, and fight; without chain or shackles holding me down.
But the more that I speak, the more that I breathe, the faster the rain falls until I drown.
And the more that I dare, the farther I venture, the less certain that I am,
that in this shade of the avalanche above, I am safe where I stand.
I wish not for just a moment
with that child of me,
with her hair tied up and a disguise of a smile
that would echo that whispery breeze of truth
that so eluded and so ill to believe.
And in that moment I would spill
the circumstance of every day to pass
and every moment that she would cry
and the fewer moments that she would laugh.
And I would ask a selfish plea to her
that she would dare not undertake,
I would ask her to keep that life she lives,
to remain every piece of the girl she is
and write her story the same way.
And that selfish child that I used to be
would refuse all that I’d ask.
She would demand every detail full and stolen
from what has been for me, would be for her,
our present and future past.
She, in every right of hers,
would change what she would do,
and everything I love and cherish
is everything that I would lose.
She would suffer no hell that I
have taken to bruise and scar.
That child of me, despite my plea,
would refuse everything we are.
She would take no lessons
and end with some other kiss
from some other love, from some other man
far differing of this.
I wish for never a moment
given to my past,
because I love this life that I have been given,
and I love this man I have.
And had I just one moment
with the child I have been,
I would lose what I love so
and what blessings I’ve been given.
I cannot regret the pain
that has since brought me here.
For this life I would have suffered all the more if needed,
and taken every tear.
We stand on some corner somewhere,
the aroma of your spells in the air.
The mist settles upon stones,
every evening, every morn’
and the phantoms continue to stare.
Your hand is in mine and I dream
fantastical, miraculous things.
What God has my favor
that I might have that which I savor?
What karma has misplaced its laced seams?
That life in my heart blooms and spills,
but my fear wells and burns that I’ll wilt.
I feel as I if am that woman
I am chained in this silvery silt.
I fear more than death a repeal,
that I’ll lose what I’ve had this past year.
A whispery veil
fell as sharply as hail
guiding views rosy blue of so dear.
I hold his hand in a grasp
reliving every moment thrice before it’s past.
A prince on his steed, and I am but lesser breed.
Little more than a maid of outcast.
The beauty held chained by a beast,
or girl scarred by scalpel, at least.
He cannot see
that girl others know of me,
but I see what I must in this sea.
I temper no blade to shimmer bright
that he may not see mirror in respite.
I fear I may never be
that woman he sees in me.
Just some rose born of shadow rather than light.