soft steps on mantled fire
Beneath us always
as we flinch at every flame we take for light
as we chatter soft lull
cultural noise and copacetic guise.
What sagas we tell ourselves
heroic lullabies that rouse the soul
The still remains
Piercing sharp with verdant blades
and spears of light in quiet souls
If only we had not dulled
the absence we took for pain,
Had not closed our eyes in storied halls
and feared beyond the flame.
Have you forgotten? What you are?
a million words in chain upon a breastplate of your own design.
gauntlet raised against that
which is already inside.
chattered lines of thought
to tell of fluted columns
arcs of light and falling leaves.
Not everything must be named
you are not what you carry
nor are you in the tales you tell.
You are the listener.
A traveller between the words, it’s said
can rest upon those verdant blades
and know the pain was never really there.