That Which Is, Is

The words of madmen, poets and dreamers
strewn like seashells half-abandoned through my head
My mind full to brimming over with the sea's susurrations

sacred enchantments

like prayers of genius

Wildfire —

a single spark

catches the heart and takes fast hold —

A merry dance for autumn harvesters
late indoors, drawn too close
To the bonfire's temptations,
the night filled with silver sirens

who take on such forms as glistening angels

fanning the flames

And the men who can not bear
thoughts of one maiden standing tall

in her victorian lace-up boots and roaming

free the desecrated landscapes

in her bohemian layers of laces and petals

with wild gypsy tresses and wilder eyes

in truth bury their heads in the sands, and turn over —

Ashes to ashes,

the fire the corpses consumes

all who would seek to subdue or be subdued

And this call to arms, held only at arm's length

the pen through which blood-red ink spills its stars

Wounds become words, sure to open and heal

open and congeal

and heal again —

I walk unafraid
My talisman your essence,

and your name,

entering into the soul of the white flame.

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unauthorized reproduction prohibited