To Go Home

Soldiers in darkness walk high on the hills,

hundreds of iron boots falling

and the lights of the stars whisper sleepless nightmares

that live in a bedroom of death.

The ravaged roads cry of battle and war

while the moon crosses darkness so slowly,

and the feet of the angels have long left this place

only to leave barren land.

Not a single lost soul can find light in this place,

there's no map or compass to guide them.

Only the voices of pain can be heard

and the strength of warriors runs dry.

No river could quench a king's thirst for blood;

No bread can fulfill his hunger.

Only death in a war fought for glory and pride

under skies of a dead foreign land.

And the soldiers, they walk to the place of a war

where pawns and knights are the pieces

in a game where life is a coin in the purse;

the pawns can only hope to go home.

In Nightmares of Old

Black washes the walls where I stood once before:
I cannot leave light in my wake.
Each little spark starts a flame of regret
and smoke seen from miles away.

I hold close to my heart the old days long ago
when I once had a mother and love.
But nothing remains from those forsaken years
save for children with motherless homes.

If I could fall to my knees without dropping the weights,
the hard burden I've been forced to bear,
I would harbor the child, cold and lost, in my arms
to ease the pain of an ill, mourning world.

In the light of a cloudy and dim rising sun,
I can feel my blood run cold.
I weep tears for the loved ones I've lost in this age
and slumber in the nightmares of old.

Deafened Again

     By candlelight, I write this. A strange dream overcame me in the midst of the night, before a rude interruption from the roar of a thunderstorm. Slowly, the dream fades from my mind, and I remember fewer and fewer details. That, however, is unimportant. A realization came to me upon my awakening to a silent blackness: a realization in the language of silence.

     No words rang in my ears; no mechanical hum filled the atmosphere; not even the rhythmic tick, tick of my clock whispered from the corner of my room. Instead, I heard the chirping of insects; I heard the croaking of amphibians. The gentle rustling of leaves came to me even through a closed window. The rain's soothing drone flooded my ears and carried away all other sounds in its torrent.

     It is as if I finally hear after a lifetime of deafness. Finally walking outside after living life indoors. I have discovered that listening is not finding the sounds you want to hear, but hearing the sounds that wish to be heard.

     For minutes, or perhaps hours does the tongue of night speak. The lips of silence voice their thoughts. Soon, though, power returns. My clock is revived. A mechanical hum overtakes the air again. My fan shudders to life, and extinguishes my candle. No longer can my ears detect nature's words. Deafened again.

     (So I sleep for another day, hoping that these moments will not fade like the dream I experienced so shortly ago.)

Wanderer

Moonlight,

an island of brightness

standing in an ocean of tar.

Lonely,

the sunrise is high now,

but last night's shadows remain.

Echoes fall to pieces

and the silence falls still.

The wanderer won't rest

though the warrior will.

No end to the travels

begun long ago,

and the wind whispers footsteps of pain.

Wander

and venture to shadows

holding the secrets of sunlight

And dabble

in the teachings of journeys

traveled across foreign lands.

One heart to another

like the sky to the plain.

Dawn breaks the darkness,

sends fear down the drain.

A thousand lost souls

find comfort in life,

and the sunrise lights fire in the sky.

And now new horizons

may shine through the rain.

New life may prosper

in darkness and day.

Whispers of the past

still rest in the shade,

but the sunlight will keep the old memories away

and sunbeams shall rain on us all.

When the Sun Shines

     I awaken hazily in our safe house. A candle gently illuminates the room. Soft snores from my allies sigh a lament of a long journey. Even after a full night's sleep, my muscles still ache. I stifle the voices of pain that seek freedom from my lungs as I approach the exit door. I push aside the door and step outside.

     The soft hiss of rain sprays the ground and taps the overhang. Water droplets trickle down the brick wall surrounding our secluded haven. Overcast skies whispered impending hardship upon us all.

     I return inside to see sleeping comrades once again. Pillows, blankets, and bodies lie haphazardly about the room. An array of weaponry sits along the wall. The leather is worn, the iron, rusted. Moss has grown in through the cracks in the walls. The air is damp and musty, as if we've been sleeping in our own graves. I hear the soft yawn of a child squeak at my feet.

     My eyes fell to meet the figure of my younger sister, Isabel. "Anne?" she whispered. "When are we leaving?"

     I froze, and thought for a moment. Living like we do, I fear we may never truly leave. I started to speak, but I choked on my words. Wearily, I replied, "We'll leave when the sun shines again."

     I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

Lost in Her Eyes.

      I awaken to discover a gritty, salty sensation in my mouth. My entire body aches. The irksome sounds of seagulls ring in my ears. I roll over; every muscle in my body groans like rusted, aged gears grinding in an ancient, neglected machine. I spit sand from my mouth and let the cold light of dawn - or dusk, I am unsure - penetrate my weak and unprepared eyes. Salt air fills my lungs; salt water splashes my feet. Brr.

     I stagger to my feet and my eyes meet the horizon, set ablaze by the sun. Wooden wreckage litters the beach. My head hurts. I can't remember anything if there's even anything to remember.

     I turn around to find a heavily-forested island. Palm trees line the shore. A coconut falls and cracks itself open on a rock. What luck. I hurry over and sip the sweet nectar. The salty taste of sand dissolves in the juice.

     But as I revitalize my taste buds, I hear a soft moan, like the coo of a dove. To my surprise, I see a young woman - about my age - turning over in the sand about a hundred feet away. An instinct, a reflex fires in my head. I clutch the coconut to my chest and sprint as quickly as my aching muscles will allow.

     She coughs a few times as she sits up. I kneel at her side and offer her the coconut husk. Carefully, she grasps it and downs the remaining coconut water. "Th-thank you," she stutters. "Wh-who are you?"

    I stammer a moment, and finally say, "William." She gives her name as "Mia." Her name's beauty rings out, and casts silence upon the seagulls, and the bitter, salty sea.

    I am lost on an island, lost in the eyes of a beautiful woman. Lost.