Story By The Hearth


So you are set again to wager out your heart
Guess that the brimful sporran is naught to ye but time,
The killer’s lying there, cheeks flushed against the hearth
That crimson blush you love, covering up the crime.

And life…then wiggles back warming your frozen limbs
And cinnamon and scraps seem like a dread no more
A thought then dawns on you: “Is this the way of kings?”
“Aye, it is so dear lad!” and now you know for sure.

So heed the storm no more and just lay down your plaid,
For winter breathes like you, only behind the glass
Feel how the purpose shifts within the living clay
When molded in the hands of your sweet, bonny lass.


A callous mind weighs more than its ordeals,
Its wicker thoughts embedded in your truth
Pledged heedlessly the shelf to wry ideals
In hope of muffling the wailing of your ruth.

And now the crimson withers into black
And all the anger recedes to abnegation,
Mirrors stare still – your shelf is out of whack…
It seems that time has signed its resignation.

And who you are holds interest no more
For these concerns have lingered in – too much!
You’re just a leaf in the cold autumn squall
Seemingly dead but living to the touch.


So what’s amiss when alcoves steal your place?
While cheekbones draw still figures in the dark,
What is that burning if it is not your face?
And who’s that shouting if it is not your heart?

Absently gazing far across the maze
Perhaps you dozed then trickled back inside,
A tattered fool too eager to amaze…
Morose yet fledged but weary to reside,

Within…your sanity benights the univited
It’s not becoming now to quiver in its sight,
Who would’ve thought you’d never be delighted
However silent, the mirrors were alight.


Seen how the chaos echoes from a past
Sun-bled over the cracks upon your wall,
Time is a leg and you’re the broken cast
And now the world’s not leaping anymore.

So drag your rags down on the hall of shame
And purge the shelf to scrape the lining clean,
Take to the cripple – he’s got a better claim
He’ll lead you back to where the beggars preen.

Yet borrowed truths still lie without remorse
And tragedy is scarce among the white,
Don’t worry now, for sanity is worse!
And it’s a shame to cuddle in its blight.

Traders, Beggars And Thieves

Which one are you?

There’s no respite – your marble hands are fading
From always scraping down against my door
And all this time – incapable of trading,
A shriveled heart has crucified the poor.

Yet mirrors beg or steal, mostly the black and bleak
By shards or by a smile, worn as a charming gun,
For yesterdays of ember embroidered on a cheek
Make for a perfect rescue when all their light is gone.

Because the statues feed on splinters of the shelf
While walking down the sidewalk of their youth,
All disarrayed and tarnished, stumbling on their feet
Clumsily going through with this absurd pursuit.

But in the end the thief is never whole
Nor is the beggar presentable to meet,
Albeit poor, I’d take a trader’s bowl
Than fool around and feed upon deceit.


Embrace the shadow of a brimming shelf tight
Then staple the bruises to the lining inside,
Seeking not of the end, this merely the bight
And reckon thyself as thy heart starts to chide.

All the pleas of a hero who despises its praise
Flaying slices of truth from the brow of one’s mind,
Yielding not as most do to a sorrowful gaze
When the trenches are gone and the battle is blind.

Should you trust all their mirrors with the promise of sun?
When their inward reflections dig a bottomless pit?
Shun away all these ghosts and forgive what was done
Burn the rags of your youth since they no longer fit.

Don’t presume you are safe from the horrors of men
Clad in thin golden clothes lacking lining within,
They’ll be stripping your shelf and then building your pen…
They’ll provide you with truths and absolve you of sin.

Another Suit

No tortuous dream is cruel without a reason
Its sacred screams yet muffled by the mute,
Birth echoes lost inside the slate sky prison
Revealing lies, embroidered in your suit.

Just stay awake and fumble through the clay
Of knitted days, aghast at what they sell,
A rusted shelf’s all that you have to pay
To be admitted to their private hell.

And then your shadow withers in the dust
Of concrete temples brooding over rain,
Two times whitewashed from riddles of the past
To cleanse the shelf and redeem all the shame.