Most of my life I have only been able to write When I am sad
When the world is most empty and without a warm corner I would light fires with analogy
Beating drums of stanzas to keep the beasts in the shadows that are circling my camp
Swinging sticks of adjectives The thumping of these lyrics Reminding me that
My heart still beats
When it is all but shattered and crumbling like the cinders in that dying flame
Building lean-tos with synonyms Shoddy and ill-matched But it was enough
To at least Shelter me from the stinging winds of isolation
But does little to hide my scent from the hungry howls of monsters That lurk just out of view
I find my drums beat softer now My timber and thorns That I once beat against barren trees Marking my way home
Turned to gentle tendrils Vines that persevere Succulents and moss that pad the trails That was once nothing But jagged stone
(That tore at the tender parts of me Leaving scarlet trails back to home)
A wasteland turned to fae
The tattered treeline That was my hiding place Now a garden full of green
The beating of drums now replaced With a soft trilling As the fire crackles
And fades away.
