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The Mechanic's WifeAnxious awaken
Tears from cylinders
That run all these dusty clocks
As the stars wouldn't dream to mock
A face so unclean
Being so far down in complete shock
No. They wouldn't dream
Dream of the black circles growing fondly
Around your severe love for machines
As the lady so comforted she cries by darkness
Darkness the devil and his right hand greed
Speak those irritated words to make things worse
You wouldn't know, she hasn't eaten in weeks
Your playmates the wrench and the screw driver
They somehow always brought out the best
The best in flannel hand me downs
your so casual same overalls
While you think of your work as an endless playground
Turn around and see what you'll find so burnt down to the ground
She is like the very sheet metal you protect yourself with
From endangering welding sparks
Once in the damn life of yours have a little heart
I'm starting to see little tiny holes wearing deep on her soul
She is so young yet she looks ghastly old
I suppose being wrapped up in oil and
Well-worn WingsWell-worn wings are what we wear
To navigate skies of despair;
Breaking ties from what was sworn
Our fledglings fall, their souls reborn.
Well-worn wings are what we need;
Shed and frayed in times of greed.
Like sails upon forgotten masts;
They are reminders of our pasts.
Well-worn wings will travel far
Lets soar away, land on a star!
Lets fight the urge to speed away;
Lets save our flight for another day.
From well-worn wings well take our scars.
Gifts tied with strings, but not labeled as ours.
The SongbirdA man once asked me
What do I wish?
Is it boxes, or pudding,
Or death-defying fish?
Is it rainbows a-plenty,
Or cabbage and glue,
Or maybe a toaster
That when it pops would say 'moo'.
But I just shook my head
And I sat for a while.
All of the right words
Were lost by a mile.
I bid him good day
With a melancholy tone,
Then up from the park bench
And back home I did roam.
I tossed and I turned,
Still thinking the words,
When finally at last
They came with the birds.
I searched for the man
That very next day
Then again did he ask me
And at last I could say:
'It's nothing of nature
That I wish for myself,
Not the dogs or the paper,
Or a hundred books on the shelf.
I don't want my children
To grow up without fears,
Without fear is for traitors
Who aren't allowed tears.
If I asked for a fortune
I'd only give it away,
So that wish must be saved
For some sunnier day.
What I want came softly
To my window this morn
On the wings of the birds
Calm as a new born.
So listen, my darling,
As I tell yo
joeyi want him unpoetic and graceless and impossible, rawboned and alive with the thrum of stubborn, stupid strength, arrogant and cocksure and good, with a roughscuffed heart of gold that longs for home and loves whole and pure and hopeless with a wanting that makes the words all tangle and catch in his throat but flow warm and willing from fingertips that know me better, with a rogue's twistlipped lightning smile and a laugh that rings echoes of the child he wasn't long enough, and eyes always, always burning fire-under-glass: brighter by the weight of the world on his shoulders or my dreams between his lashes, gold whispers blinking slow by dawnlight.
I Am Afraid Of My Own VoiceYou are an entire universe full of stars;
tiny droplets of light,
that integrate to become a part of me.
You inflate my heart,
it was made of paper but now
reminds me of odd-shaped balloons,
to sizes that can not be measured.
I've tried to count the reasons.
that I l-o-v-e you.
But come up short to a million every time.
I am always reminded of your love,
(As if I'd let myself forget.)
Your smile serves as my Polaris:
Ribbons are fastened about my tongue;
I am more than flabbergasted
because there's a part of you in every word.
The BeginningHe told them, of course. He told those idiots everything, the whole damn story, including the blunder he'd made, and its consequences. Looking back on it later, he realized he had probably been in shock the whole time. It made sense, anyone would have been.
Soph was about twenty years old, and he'd been that way for a couple of years already, ever since the Hoarde had started attacking humanity from the past. Every day that passed, they ate at another day in the past. It sickened him. Those creatures had absolutely no regard for proper time and causality protocols.
It didn't seem to affect anyone else that way, though.
The Hoarde was the result of a human creation, of course, like everything bad in the world, though no one else knew about them. Then again, no one else had undiluted access to the power of creation. Even he didn't know much about the Hoarde, only that they appeared through some tear in The Fabric of The World and started killing people off. They appeared at some point in
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