what remains free:
stories you wove in the cold breeze
as we sped down congested roads, a patchwork
strung together by laughter, commas and silence.
what stands firm:
stone churches, white churches, chapels
and flowers wired to pews and altars, as broken thoughts flew
and formed wordless prayers for strength.
what remains trapped:
A face in candlelight,
A touch that broke through my dark dream,
tears that fell on the road i wished i'd picked up
but feared i had no right to,
that translated into refrains of songs,
and what do i do now?
sever etched pathways,
run through the desert, for the arrows
are beyond me, within me,
and wait for Orion
to open his portal and let loose
the angel of death?
For nothing remains...