Waiting outside a window
is a wolf that wants to play.
To be told it has existed,
That it's okay to stay.
We prowl in the darkness,
softly stalking down our prey.
Continuing from long ago,
I do not sin to say:
You've made your choice.
You've lost your voice.
You can't return,
though this, you yearn,
Because you did not sing.
It's them or us,
So what's the fuss?
And no, you can't have both.
It's been awhile,
The sky's gone gray
And you dwell outside my window,
Waiting for some greater truth
To tell you that it's okay.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Just Another Griefer
You saw me in the shadows,
I know you must have,
the silver in the black.
You didn't know long I'd been there,
You didn't know from whence I came.
A guardian angel, arrived far too late.
They took your spirit,
but not your fight.
A stolen soul, but not a lost cause.
Even when it holds no meaning to you,
you fight on, you trek forward,
You make me see how wrong I am.
Not just another griefer,
Just another believer,
Not just another one.
Don't tell me you can make it on your own;
You need me as much as I do you.
They need you more.
(A/N: I would like to thank Fred Gallagher for MegaTokyo, particularly for Miho, whom the line "Just another griefer" is attributed to. I don't really think the poem has anything to do with the comic, though. However, depending on how you read it, it could...)
I know you must have,
the silver in the black.
You didn't know long I'd been there,
You didn't know from whence I came.
A guardian angel, arrived far too late.
They took your spirit,
but not your fight.
A stolen soul, but not a lost cause.
Even when it holds no meaning to you,
you fight on, you trek forward,
You make me see how wrong I am.
Not just another griefer,
Just another believer,
Not just another one.
Don't tell me you can make it on your own;
You need me as much as I do you.
They need you more.
(A/N: I would like to thank Fred Gallagher for MegaTokyo, particularly for Miho, whom the line "Just another griefer" is attributed to. I don't really think the poem has anything to do with the comic, though. However, depending on how you read it, it could...)
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Enough to break you heart from afar.
The air holds hot and humid,
pressing down around us,
sweating it all out,
and we wait for the rain.
She stands alone,
cold enough to break your heart
from all so far away,
her shadow, a statue,
darker than you could have thought.
He fell through a crack in the sidewalk,
disappeared from the face of the earth.
No, you can't understand him,
only wonder at his choice.
The only help is that it is cloudy;
this is why I dare to stay,
So even if I can't predict the outcome,
I can still enjoy the rain.
pressing down around us,
sweating it all out,
and we wait for the rain.
She stands alone,
cold enough to break your heart
from all so far away,
her shadow, a statue,
darker than you could have thought.
He fell through a crack in the sidewalk,
disappeared from the face of the earth.
No, you can't understand him,
only wonder at his choice.
The only help is that it is cloudy;
this is why I dare to stay,
So even if I can't predict the outcome,
I can still enjoy the rain.
Friday, July 11, 2008
How it's supposed to be.
People kept saying, "This isn't how it's supposed to be."
And I sat there thinking, "How is it supposed to be?"
Should he be here, living, with us, chatting, laughing-
Like a normal teenager, who, when you look more closely,
is far from normal, per se.
Some people can change the world they live in
by changing something in thier community.
Their backgrounds are feilds,
and thier visions, dynamic.
Some people are effective,
they get a message out.
They are like a small pebble,
Thrown into a still pond,
ripples spanning to the dark.
Some people die, painful and prolonged,
And the thought hangs like a boulder,
held up by an old rope,
and when it breaks-
there will be waves.
Some people do all three.
The water laps more harshly then it has before,
liquid tendrils reaching futher on the shore.
You can't tell where this is going,
and still, you long for more.
This is not our resting place,
and neither is it yours.
Like a leaf, your memory,
floats on into the storm.
Maybe we will dance in it,
for it's known; This too shall pass.
Sometimes it takes longer,
and sometimes we forget.
How can we know who will be here, when the storm does clear?
And why do we cry for strangers, but not for kin?
Why do we suppose to say that the universe is wrong?
I heard them say, "This is not how it's supposed to be?"
And it got me to thinking, "So how is it supposed to be?"
~*~
For Aharon Simcha Halley- z''l
And I sat there thinking, "How is it supposed to be?"
Should he be here, living, with us, chatting, laughing-
Like a normal teenager, who, when you look more closely,
is far from normal, per se.
Some people can change the world they live in
by changing something in thier community.
Their backgrounds are feilds,
and thier visions, dynamic.
Some people are effective,
they get a message out.
They are like a small pebble,
Thrown into a still pond,
ripples spanning to the dark.
Some people die, painful and prolonged,
And the thought hangs like a boulder,
held up by an old rope,
and when it breaks-
there will be waves.
Some people do all three.
The water laps more harshly then it has before,
liquid tendrils reaching futher on the shore.
You can't tell where this is going,
and still, you long for more.
This is not our resting place,
and neither is it yours.
Like a leaf, your memory,
floats on into the storm.
Maybe we will dance in it,
for it's known; This too shall pass.
Sometimes it takes longer,
and sometimes we forget.
How can we know who will be here, when the storm does clear?
And why do we cry for strangers, but not for kin?
Why do we suppose to say that the universe is wrong?
I heard them say, "This is not how it's supposed to be?"
And it got me to thinking, "So how is it supposed to be?"
~*~
For Aharon Simcha Halley- z''l
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tear at the Fractions
I wish that you existed,
I want that you should be real,
I want to be able to look at you and tell
"I can feel."
I wait in as place as green as they be,
Unbent, unformed, and powerful.
There are trees, old and gnarled and tall,
waiting till the storms engulf,
and whip away the factions,
tear at the fractions,
bringing away the leaves.
I sit on a grey roof,
staring up to the blue,
and I'm thinking of you.
The fish swam past the fallen branch
Silver streak in muddy water,
Black lightening in the brown clouds,
Stir up the mud,
don't think nothing of it,
Don't believe what they say,
Can you trust them, anyway?
The heron jabs its beak in-
The struggle is brief,
The great blue flies away.
And I'm sitting here,
wishing you existed.
I want that you should be real,
I want to be able to look at you and tell
"I can feel."
I wait in as place as green as they be,
Unbent, unformed, and powerful.
There are trees, old and gnarled and tall,
waiting till the storms engulf,
and whip away the factions,
tear at the fractions,
bringing away the leaves.
I sit on a grey roof,
staring up to the blue,
and I'm thinking of you.
The fish swam past the fallen branch
Silver streak in muddy water,
Black lightening in the brown clouds,
Stir up the mud,
don't think nothing of it,
Don't believe what they say,
Can you trust them, anyway?
The heron jabs its beak in-
The struggle is brief,
The great blue flies away.
And I'm sitting here,
wishing you existed.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
We write 'love' on our arms
I pray for strength
because time is not enough
because life throws hard punches
and I just want to punch back.
I have friends
who cut themselves,
to make the pain
more real.
And I think, "My god,
how beautiful,
this pain we call
'to feel.'"
I write love on
my arm
and on the arms
of others.
I see some scars
and I cry
a little
inside.
Not only because
I wasn't there
for them,
to stop them,
but also because I've
seen the abyss
from the bottom of it
and it's seen me,
and stared back.
And I wonder
what it was that
made them break
and why,
now,
we write 'love'
on our arms
as another way we can escape
with nothing more
that we'll have to explain-
in years in the future
to people we don't know now,
who might not understand-
since this is sending the same message,
but isn't as destructive.
Love is just a word
to send a message
about something
voiceless in its soul.
And I pray for strength
because
I want to see this through.
because time is not enough
because life throws hard punches
and I just want to punch back.
I have friends
who cut themselves,
to make the pain
more real.
And I think, "My god,
how beautiful,
this pain we call
'to feel.'"
I write love on
my arm
and on the arms
of others.
I see some scars
and I cry
a little
inside.
Not only because
I wasn't there
for them,
to stop them,
but also because I've
seen the abyss
from the bottom of it
and it's seen me,
and stared back.
And I wonder
what it was that
made them break
and why,
now,
we write 'love'
on our arms
as another way we can escape
with nothing more
that we'll have to explain-
in years in the future
to people we don't know now,
who might not understand-
since this is sending the same message,
but isn't as destructive.
Love is just a word
to send a message
about something
voiceless in its soul.
And I pray for strength
because
I want to see this through.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Follower
She was standing at the trailhead, where she had stood years ago. The slant of the light amidst the pines was reminiscent of another day, another time. There were only so many ways to express one’s grief, to heal, and finally forgive. She started out, up the mountain that fell away steeply on the other side. The old tennis shoes crunched the frosted mulch of the trail, and a baggy navy sweatshirt guarded her slim body against the cold. The cuffs of her jeans were frayed and the knees threadbare. Too much time had passed and not enough had happened. She could wait another decade, maybe. Another lifetime under the influence and desire for closure. It wasn’t fair the way she had made him wait all these years.
She quickened her pace, hearing the voices of the tendrils that he had called fey. Some held a distinctive shape, like that of a human, but many times smaller. They tugged at her hair and clothes, almost pulling her up the mountain. To an observer it appeared as if she were caught in a solitary windstorm, a cyclone that engulfed her, and only her.
~*~
It was her freshman year of college and she was stuck in a history lecture because she needed the credits to graduate. She hadn’t chosen a major yet, but everything required some form of a history credit. The class was on medieval history, which she had selected in hopes of getting a fairy tale of some sort. In her mind the past had very little to do with anything. The auditorium style lecture hall was stuffy and smelled of the sweat of too many bored, hot bodies. The professor merely read from the text and ran slides of famed battles and buildings.
“Why do they even make us take a history course? Feudalism sucks- I get it.” She muttered to herself as the professor droned on.
“So we can know where we came from- lest we forget.” The boy behind her replied.
He was pretty, after a fashion. He was delicately featured, with a pointed chin and high cheek bones. His hair was brown and no more than two inches long and curled softly, like a vine. His eyes were slanted but their color was odd. They were…orange…maybe. She looked again, they were green.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I know. I lived part of it.”
This intrigued her. Her mind whirled, time machines, is this kid a maniac, rip in the time space continuum, what the hell? “Quit the shenanigans. How?"
He leaned forward, and spoke in the most confidential tone: “I’m a demon.”
~*~
Nearly an hour now that the fey had been tugging at her clothing. The sun was rising higher, dispersing the fog and the sunbeams. She looked at her watch, and noted that she still had some time to spare. The fey stopped suddenly, as if having sensed her thoughts. Fine, they seemed to whisper, these five minutes we shall spare for you.
She sighed and slid down the trunk of a young pine tree. The feeling of not having any weight on her feet was simultaneously relieving and painful. Her socks were probably stained red by this time and if she were to tend to her sore blisters she did not know if she would be able to go on. What she had done had been inexcusable, so irrevocably wrong, how had she dared to do that deed?
Time, the fey whispered, the time is now. They urged her on and slowly she arose, wincing from the sting of her feet. Before the fey began their tug of war she held herself up with the aide of the young pine tree, and she patted her front pocket, where the bag that held her sin resided.
~*~
In her second year of college they moved in together. She still had not chosen a major, but hoped they would eventually give her a degree if enough credits accumulated. Their apartment was small, but not cramped. Though many people who knew them assumed they had slept together, they never shared the same bed, and even slept in separate rooms. Whether Samson was a demon, as he claimed, or merely an eccentric man was still undetermined in her mind, but had also sunk to the back of her thoughts, so it was inconsequential to their relationship. He rarely ate, but preferred to prepare exotic meals for her and watch as she slowly, relishingly, consumed them. She had never seen him get a haircut or seen him shave. He kept no razors, and she was sure she would be able to tell if he used hers. His eye color was still undetermined.
The flatmates kept each other company and neither one tried to romance the other. She assumed that after Samson had his English Literature and Creative Writing degrees, they would get married. She had read some of his works and could tell that there was a charisma to them, something that drew the hapless reader in and kept them captive, well until after the last word. In his writings there was also an anger towards god, a questioning helplessness that often referenced stories from the Old Testament, particularly the one of his name sake, and his downfall. She wasn’t concerned by this. She had emerged from her teenaged years an atheist, and tried not to concern herself with what others believed.
Samson encouraged her to study psychology, so she could understand how others thought, why they did the things they did. He was taking a course on it himself so he could “give his characters more depth.”
One late night he introduced her to the orbs of human shaped light that flitted around his bedroom, and told her they were called fey.
“A demon must always have his messengers,” he explained, as if that was why his eyes glowed, or why the fey hummed softly, weaving her hair into his.
Between classes and social obligations both managed to find time to go for a long hike, each and every weekend. These hikes, of course, had been Samson’s suggestion. A way to escape the rumors and other stresses, and, more so, that the fey could see the trees. The fey grew cagey and restless amongst the concrete and the dead wood and the plastic trees. By the end of the week, the fey would ricochet off of each other and the walls, causing the electricity to flicker, and, once, go out.
It was on one of these hikes that he told her that his power was stored in his hair. It had been a chilly day in mid March, and when they reached the pinnacle of the mountain, which was also the end of the trail, he kissed her the way the rumors said they kissed. She couldn’t feel her body anymore, and grew lighter and lighter, until she feared that she would be torn away by the blustering winds and transformed into something beyond this world. Her mind filled with the buzzing of many voices, some familiar, some foreign. They fey encircled them until they were a tower of solid white light.
“There is no fear of god in you,” he murmured when they disengaged.
~*~
The terrain began to flatten out as the pinnacle approached. To rise so steeply and then to come level, like the village fool turned wise man, now talking with god. The trees had fallen away and the colligate town spread forth miles below. Her legs ached but the fey pulled her forward. Come, they whispered, you’ve been so long, dear human. And we cannot wait much longer.
~*~
She cut his hair that night.
She snuck into his room with a pair of old, rusted scissors and a prayer that he was human.
The fey stuck to their corner, exhausted from the emotions of the day.
She knelt beside him and as each lock fell, she deposited it into a plastic bag. His eyes fluttered open as the last lock was shorn.
“Why?” He murmured looking into her eyes. “Why?” He asked hopelessly, repeating himself, his eyes the blue of the edge of the ocean where it meets the sky. “One year more and I would have been free. A demon lives a thousand years in one immortal body, and if they have lived well, they are given a chance at mortality. I had only one more year.”
He grew lighter and lighter, and then dissolved away in a burst of light. The fey hummed angrily, but did not move from their corner. She stared on, at the place he had been moments before, still too shocked to acknowledge what she had done, what she had been a part of.
When she awoke that morning the fey were gone.
~*~
They lingered behind her now, fearful of the power she held in the plastic bag in her hands. They brightened with the sunlight, now coming from over head, beating down upon the cold, spring earth. The wind was strong and the town was lain out beneath. The time, they whispered, the time is now.
She felt awkward, because there was so much ceremony to this act, and yet that did not seem to be fitting. She opened the bag and let the locks fly out. A stiff wind took them, and carried them beyond the reach of her comprehension. She had lived a warped decade and now, was finally redeemed. Her body felt lighter and lighter until she could hear his voice: “You were nearly a decade too late. I forgive you.”
In burst of light which was swept up by the wind, she disintegrated and disappeared.
She quickened her pace, hearing the voices of the tendrils that he had called fey. Some held a distinctive shape, like that of a human, but many times smaller. They tugged at her hair and clothes, almost pulling her up the mountain. To an observer it appeared as if she were caught in a solitary windstorm, a cyclone that engulfed her, and only her.
~*~
It was her freshman year of college and she was stuck in a history lecture because she needed the credits to graduate. She hadn’t chosen a major yet, but everything required some form of a history credit. The class was on medieval history, which she had selected in hopes of getting a fairy tale of some sort. In her mind the past had very little to do with anything. The auditorium style lecture hall was stuffy and smelled of the sweat of too many bored, hot bodies. The professor merely read from the text and ran slides of famed battles and buildings.
“Why do they even make us take a history course? Feudalism sucks- I get it.” She muttered to herself as the professor droned on.
“So we can know where we came from- lest we forget.” The boy behind her replied.
He was pretty, after a fashion. He was delicately featured, with a pointed chin and high cheek bones. His hair was brown and no more than two inches long and curled softly, like a vine. His eyes were slanted but their color was odd. They were…orange…maybe. She looked again, they were green.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I know. I lived part of it.”
This intrigued her. Her mind whirled, time machines, is this kid a maniac, rip in the time space continuum, what the hell? “Quit the shenanigans. How?"
He leaned forward, and spoke in the most confidential tone: “I’m a demon.”
~*~
Nearly an hour now that the fey had been tugging at her clothing. The sun was rising higher, dispersing the fog and the sunbeams. She looked at her watch, and noted that she still had some time to spare. The fey stopped suddenly, as if having sensed her thoughts. Fine, they seemed to whisper, these five minutes we shall spare for you.
She sighed and slid down the trunk of a young pine tree. The feeling of not having any weight on her feet was simultaneously relieving and painful. Her socks were probably stained red by this time and if she were to tend to her sore blisters she did not know if she would be able to go on. What she had done had been inexcusable, so irrevocably wrong, how had she dared to do that deed?
Time, the fey whispered, the time is now. They urged her on and slowly she arose, wincing from the sting of her feet. Before the fey began their tug of war she held herself up with the aide of the young pine tree, and she patted her front pocket, where the bag that held her sin resided.
~*~
In her second year of college they moved in together. She still had not chosen a major, but hoped they would eventually give her a degree if enough credits accumulated. Their apartment was small, but not cramped. Though many people who knew them assumed they had slept together, they never shared the same bed, and even slept in separate rooms. Whether Samson was a demon, as he claimed, or merely an eccentric man was still undetermined in her mind, but had also sunk to the back of her thoughts, so it was inconsequential to their relationship. He rarely ate, but preferred to prepare exotic meals for her and watch as she slowly, relishingly, consumed them. She had never seen him get a haircut or seen him shave. He kept no razors, and she was sure she would be able to tell if he used hers. His eye color was still undetermined.
The flatmates kept each other company and neither one tried to romance the other. She assumed that after Samson had his English Literature and Creative Writing degrees, they would get married. She had read some of his works and could tell that there was a charisma to them, something that drew the hapless reader in and kept them captive, well until after the last word. In his writings there was also an anger towards god, a questioning helplessness that often referenced stories from the Old Testament, particularly the one of his name sake, and his downfall. She wasn’t concerned by this. She had emerged from her teenaged years an atheist, and tried not to concern herself with what others believed.
Samson encouraged her to study psychology, so she could understand how others thought, why they did the things they did. He was taking a course on it himself so he could “give his characters more depth.”
One late night he introduced her to the orbs of human shaped light that flitted around his bedroom, and told her they were called fey.
“A demon must always have his messengers,” he explained, as if that was why his eyes glowed, or why the fey hummed softly, weaving her hair into his.
Between classes and social obligations both managed to find time to go for a long hike, each and every weekend. These hikes, of course, had been Samson’s suggestion. A way to escape the rumors and other stresses, and, more so, that the fey could see the trees. The fey grew cagey and restless amongst the concrete and the dead wood and the plastic trees. By the end of the week, the fey would ricochet off of each other and the walls, causing the electricity to flicker, and, once, go out.
It was on one of these hikes that he told her that his power was stored in his hair. It had been a chilly day in mid March, and when they reached the pinnacle of the mountain, which was also the end of the trail, he kissed her the way the rumors said they kissed. She couldn’t feel her body anymore, and grew lighter and lighter, until she feared that she would be torn away by the blustering winds and transformed into something beyond this world. Her mind filled with the buzzing of many voices, some familiar, some foreign. They fey encircled them until they were a tower of solid white light.
“There is no fear of god in you,” he murmured when they disengaged.
~*~
The terrain began to flatten out as the pinnacle approached. To rise so steeply and then to come level, like the village fool turned wise man, now talking with god. The trees had fallen away and the colligate town spread forth miles below. Her legs ached but the fey pulled her forward. Come, they whispered, you’ve been so long, dear human. And we cannot wait much longer.
~*~
She cut his hair that night.
She snuck into his room with a pair of old, rusted scissors and a prayer that he was human.
The fey stuck to their corner, exhausted from the emotions of the day.
She knelt beside him and as each lock fell, she deposited it into a plastic bag. His eyes fluttered open as the last lock was shorn.
“Why?” He murmured looking into her eyes. “Why?” He asked hopelessly, repeating himself, his eyes the blue of the edge of the ocean where it meets the sky. “One year more and I would have been free. A demon lives a thousand years in one immortal body, and if they have lived well, they are given a chance at mortality. I had only one more year.”
He grew lighter and lighter, and then dissolved away in a burst of light. The fey hummed angrily, but did not move from their corner. She stared on, at the place he had been moments before, still too shocked to acknowledge what she had done, what she had been a part of.
When she awoke that morning the fey were gone.
~*~
They lingered behind her now, fearful of the power she held in the plastic bag in her hands. They brightened with the sunlight, now coming from over head, beating down upon the cold, spring earth. The wind was strong and the town was lain out beneath. The time, they whispered, the time is now.
She felt awkward, because there was so much ceremony to this act, and yet that did not seem to be fitting. She opened the bag and let the locks fly out. A stiff wind took them, and carried them beyond the reach of her comprehension. She had lived a warped decade and now, was finally redeemed. Her body felt lighter and lighter until she could hear his voice: “You were nearly a decade too late. I forgive you.”
In burst of light which was swept up by the wind, she disintegrated and disappeared.
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