“Come home with me,” he tells me. it’s the softest I've heard him speak. he’s a feet or two away, my back turned, but I know that if I see him, I won’t be able to finish what I’ve started.
“I can’t.” I hide the crack in my voice well; years of experience will do that to you. 
“Why not?” I look up, contemplating. the skies are ashed up, and down under, the people cry for retribution. 
“This world needs...

my family doesn't do meanings. they charge ahead constantly--unbound by the shackles of tradition and heritage.
i hate it. i hate it. i hate it.
we make no meanings, for meanings change. they are the dandelion seeds that blossom with each of our steps into the wind. they will follow the wind--they will not look back.
i hate it.
traditions? rituals? we have no time for that. no time, no time. life is too short for the things that time...

there is a beating lump of iron in me. i took it out yesterday, polished and decorated with the finest gems i could find—i gave it to the blacksmith. i told them,

make me a sword out of this.

the blacksmith did not reply. they took one look at it and said,

the best i can do is a dagger.

I walked out with an iron dagger a side blunt and the other cutting through diamond.
 

He will take your flowers—your lilies, your roses, your gardenias—and he will make crown out of it. He will hate every second of it, but he will do it. he will do it for no reason other than the fact that he can.

when the moon reaches for the clouds
i remain a flame lit for only her

fear is an unbounded rabid dog in the face of rotten flesh
hers is that—only worse. she may seek and seek in the depths of my flares.
she will find nothing but smoke and charred skin

her agony reflects from the looking glass
[my light can only deceive so much]
the silver glass thinks itself smart
truth does seem better than candlelit lies


I’d like...

my first one was picked by my mother
rebellious she was, but pliant
as she held me she murmurs
“I’ll call you ————”

my second stuck on me 
a duckling imprinting it’s mother 
“Here, this one’s yours.” I knew though
it wasn’t mine to take

the third I picked
in a bucketful of words strung together to sound out music
my conductor could not make symphonies

fourth came unwillingly 
a lion bearing crooked teeth—served none but it’s god—
soft words...

soft she is, in her drapes of emerald silver and rubies
a crown—not of garnished gold and the like—no, a crown of aged leaves on a hundred yeared tree like her own nation
a crown that whispers for oldened sorcery that no longer exists, whispers a revolution that prolongs and ceases with each mortal/soul that leaves it
she wears herself like a queen, not a king—nevera king—wears her burdens like the pins in her hair; numerous they may...