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.
