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

to indifference.

 And yet

The still remains

above. below. 

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

rod straight

to tell of fluted columns

arcs of light and falling leaves.

Stop. Rest.

Not everything must be named

Step light

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.