Lullaby

In your silent sleep,
untouched
by scars left vivid
across your soul
a recollection
of all the pretty horses.

She will sing to you,

the song of a mother
who's watching eye
was unable to halt
the battle cry
of the looming war horse.

She will sing to you.

Shedding blood as she
goes,
a daily battle to ease
your passing
from the world where she is queen
into
a world outside her dreams.

Battle scars

The space you left behind
bore the scars
of a vision once so perfect,
knitted up in each
fibre of my very being

and

how slowly you

disintegrated.

Battle Cry

It is not our old we send to war,
those who have lived a thousand lives,
experienced all there is to offer,
soared on wings or plumbed the depths,
taken life by the hand and shook it firmly.
It is our young.
Lives so full of promise,
the potential as of yet unknown.

And still we send them.

Cookies and Cream

Under the punishing pull
of your upper hand,
stuck in this rut,
your face
radiates a smug self satisfied smile;
you thought you had the world
but she struggled to stay afloat,
under your radar,
a girl drip dropping away.
Crumbling.
Wasting.

A lesser God

I think if he had
a mouth
he might say
that I was a
terrible mistake,
the oversight on his part,
the left over pieces
used up
simply because
he hated waste.
If he could explain
would there be
words which have
no grounding
or
absolute absolution?