Mad were the days

when we walked the fields

of fire flowers and wild rain

in the deepest valleys,

dawn to dusk, and

through the howling nights.

 

Sharp was the pain

when I was unreal,

and lost myself in the blinding shame,

counting sins like tallies,

sinking in sand,

nothing was set right.

 

Deep was the night

when we counted waves;

you saw yourself as the worlds flew by,

rushing out towards morning,

riding the crest,

frighteningly fast.

 

Fierce was the sky

in the final days

when stars had burst with a single sigh

in their flames of warning

and smokey mist

that rolled from the blast.

 

Broke were the masks

under which we hid

when Fortune came with her battle axe

smashing all to bits,

tilting the world,

laying us all bare.

 

Sharp was the task

when I had to bid

farewell to the one who saw my cracks.

My heart lost her wits,

away she whirled,

then no one was there.

 

Bleak are my fears

hiding from the moon,

seeking shelter away from the light,

dwelling in caverns,

I’ve fled so far,

since I lost the sight.

 

Gone are my tears,

I used them too soon,

they flew off with my dreams on a kite,

and gone are my burns,

only the scars

remain, as is right.

 

9/18/25