in the summer
they buried the broken chains
under the willow tree.
the sunburnt drummer
wept with the warm clean rains,
but no one cared to see.
in the chill of early autumn,
the rot of rusted metal and old sins…
a soul-deep shame– just show them…
but we forget where the wrong begins.
and I-come winter- I dissapear.
a snowspace, empty for the wind
and you- sudden splinter- fear
the cold sunlight, sorrow skinned…
so in the end, it doesn’t matter.
there never was a home build for all your pain.
so in the night, the clumsy clatter,
of secrets falling, bother no one all the same.
i never found the words to find you.
i never found the way to heal.
perhaps i never really tried to.
perhaps you never were really real.
perhaps we are too quick to measure
the depths of every pain,
and all the fear and small pleasure
never leaves us the same…
claw your way out, little warrior soul of mine,
whatever it’s all about, there never will be enough time.