This crushed christmas tree scent of a hundred childhoods never lived. A yearning for our forest lives and the comfort fire of a storybook past. A brother who went into the woods to seek his fortune and a sister who pricked her finger and fell asleep.
Walking silent and silent on a pine needle floor. A wolf leads me into some velveteen deep. Hushed in the stillness of those silhouette trees, my hand on my compass and my heart in fear. Though I walk the forest of my enemies disguised, I trust in my guide and his dumb, animal eyes.

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into the dark

This sweet pain under my heart extends a fiery vein into the dark

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Luminous firefly warming my palm,
Sowing little fire seeds under the storm.

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Elbow-deep in ink, seeking for those nostalgic ornaments I can’t toss out but think I might. I left them buried in the safe black in case of need but now they just won’t come to my hand. Surely they know I’m only seeking them to cast them aside. It doesn’t matter how gently I call them by their secret names.
Only at night do they creep out and leave tiny black ant tracks across my collar bone. And my sleep is made restless by them. Some nights I stand guard in the dark until I hear the carolling morning bird and all is a pale blue peace and now! Now it is safe to sleep.


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reposted for David Keys, 24th April 1925 – 12th September 2014

The uncaring stars bring cool relief,

To the strange, blue hills of our childhood’s sleep.

When forgetful snow wraps the summer’s grief,

And ice closes over the rustling streams,

Then we find the faint trail and go numbly back

To our fire to wait where our parents once sat.

The rivers flow sluggish and quieten the mill,

When winter extinguishes summer’s spark.

In the deepest earth the creatures lie still

Waiting to burst into spring from the dark.

And all our hurts are just seeds as to flowers,

Waiting to bloom into brighter hours.

While every snow blankets the fragile stem

Until life finds its way to the sun again.


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The sea

I made one thousand sandcastles before noon
Then kicked them all down and watched the sea take them

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rain cocoon

living in this warm rain cocoon

I extend a hand to check the ice wind

curl up again, waiting for my body to reform

with all the little hail cuts pushing out stems of light

to wrap me in a stronger skin

half armour and half butterfly wing

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A book

I am the leaves of a book
A forest of unspoken words
I am opened to a page of lavish pictures
I am folded to an unreadable verse
I am turned to a stark blank page
Snapped shut


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Oh when will I be pure again?
Untangled from the fume of dousing
Free to read the full marvel of the moon again
Unleashed from my double-guessing
My shallow expectations of certainty.
When will I lie close to the earth and see the tiny universe unfurling?
An ant struggling with a seed.
The little, unnamed creatures, so busy and so free. So far above me.


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when I’m sleeping

‘And long ago she said – ‘I must be leaving,
Ah but keep my body here to lie upon
You can move it up and down and when I’m sleeping
Run some wire through that Rose and wind the Swan.’
So daily I renew my idle duty
I touch her here and there – I know my place
I kiss her open mouth and praise her beauty
and people call me traitor to my face.’

- Leonard Cohen

Martha Wainwright sings The Traitor:

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