She tries to rearrange the sunrays, calls the clouds
clutter, the Namaqualand daisies that stray her way
are worthy of slaughter, too erratic, too off-colour
defying borders. Nightmares intrude, find her
unaware, bleed hurts dry, sand grains are sorted
by composition and size, though so many fail
to comply. Secrets, dozens, this paladin keeps,
their shadows bring chaos when she submits
to sleep. Somehow she inters her cry, an art she
has mastered. Hidden, a hint of formaldehyde in
tears, for ghosts return to box her ears. Few would
guess at the cautions she takes, how trust strains
against a thousand barricades. But love is there,
a babe pressing on crib bars, it stains sleeves,
it fills her ribs and yet somehow, it dissolves
in air. How could she be so misunderstood,
defending treasures rare, restoring perfect order,
freeing truth from falling stars, sweeping creaks
from ancient stairs and re-gilding tarnished alters.
All she wants is peace, harmony, everything good,
and so she does more, more than she should,
schools truants, tames the wild and refuses to falter.
Argument is to me the air I breathe. Given any proposition,
I cannot help believing the other side and defending it.
Intelligent debate does not orginate from either disrespect or dislike.
In fact, I'd argue the opposite to be true.
I ignore idiots.
But I fight with friends.
~ Cyndi MacMillan~