Lost Poem
I have no idea when I wrote this poem, but I just came across it again!
It takes but a touch
to know the minds of men.
If wise ways are wicked ways
than evil heart I shall have.
Knowledge brings fury
and frenzy too.
Tiny queens with busy hands
touch and sooth the violent volva.
The eyes that never open
can see many things clearly
Touched they call it
but touched by whom?
Brising's keeper calls to me still
The weaver of clouds cautions me
Take only what you give
or give not at all
Gift for a Gift
Price for a price
Tiny queens with busy hands
dyes walnut hues into dreams
Pieces of patrimony
desperately scratched into stone
hope of lasting legacies
born into the bones of babes
like grand stones of immortality
to the earth we fall.