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I was wandering in the woods of dawn
as I flew in the face of logic
the night before
the mourning after

gifted with such wonderful wounds
caress the salty waters
the light in the dead of the day
whispers gently; birds of prey

attack in vain
decay
and
sustain
release this greater art of wrath

Early spring: Silence is forced to leave,
uncovering immature thoughts. Are they
yet to be unleashed? Orion rules the sky
once more, orbiting the polar star. What weak companion that I am to him. Has winter wiped the forsaken thought, whose twitching I believe to feel? No longer shall it dwell within. Early spring is on my mind, throughout of another kind. Yet, as
I bethink again, I recognise him very well.

I was wandering in the woods of dawn
as I flew in the face of logic
the night before
the mourning after

gifted with such wonderful wounds
caress the salty waters
the light in the dead of the day
whispers gently; birds of prey

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