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Poem

A mutation of broken parts from unspoken monsters,
unsettling by heart yet comforting in touch.
Move no mountains for this unfortunate miscreation;
endless waves have made monsoons weep.

Timeless tales have woven a quilt of myths—
how the echo filters reality from the light.
Why must thorns pierce through the field of forgiveness?
Silent spheres meant for homing—
might it be the sharpness that drenches itself in gold,
swallowing the secrets of bleeding stars,
while purging threats of thunder in fragile jars?

Leave no bones to bind,
no barks from heinous hounds.
I am the silver lining between love and longing,
the grizzly gates built by broken men.

What is left of this fragrant fruit that holds no seeds?
Take no pain from the soils that give empty needs.
Save those songs for better days,
for a harp from heaven will have softer things to say.

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