Death comes steadily, swiftly, on the frosted lips of early morn,

Dripping up into the shallow vanilla sky as the lone soul cries
Over a life yet unlived, and with trembling lips, whispers, I

Should have, could have, would have, if I had only known the time.
And he passes silently only after screaming to an empty room, No!

And the soul’s sister stares, turns into her pillow to weep and sleep
Finally until she awakes wandering in her gown, wondering, I

Should have, could have, would have, if I had only known the time.
And she passes restlessly on clouds of sorrow from room to room.

I don’t want to love or watch the sun die against his face. So blow North, Father Wind, and lift the hair from the nape of my neck, cool and tender, and leave the hand pressed against my back for me to grasp.

I could stop rationalizing and thinking as soon as I became focused enough to articulate clearly. I highly doubt either will occur.

In my mind and in my heart the dead and the undead reside in constant sorrow.

In my mind you'll find all the doubt and suspicion of four-thousand years, many lifetimes yet to reconcile. And I am tired yet the irrational and unfounded thoughts plagues me, and I feel I am going mad. Delightfully so.

Softly cries the tender heart
That bleeds into the night.
Loss, remorse, the inevitability
Of death, the fragility
Of procreation and life.
She needs and she needs
To get back into
Her hard heart
And stop caring
But her caring can be
So divine.

But I didn't realize that thing shining brightly in the distance was my own realization of self. It seemed so glorious and yet, it hurts terrifically. I almost feel cheated, like getting underwear for Christmas.

Oh, you little child of thought
Formed from earth and wind and fire and rain,
From a truer heart you could not have come,
And been mourned no less in death.

She held her distance, mild and sweet
Then stepped lightly into their midst.
Out of curiosity? Out of need?
Out of the desire to breed gone bad?
But the lightness of being drew her close;
The taste, the reaction,
And the eyeful of temptation
All the staring into the dazzling bright,
And the need to be around skin and bones;
A voice not her own.

And deep into the caring, she recalled
Just why she had shied away,
As she strives to stop trying
To even understand, to cool her want
Ands simply bask in the brief attentiveness allowed.

But now
sorrowfully bleeds the
Heart of mist that
Falls into the deep red crush that
Leads into the pain of loss and caring.

When Verity walked the earth she carried close a secret smile. She harbored thoughts of skin and bones and a voice not hers; sweet lips curved in an impish grin and the gentle turn of a hip. But the music fell on a deaf heart that already bled in a deep red crush of remorseful sorrow and loss. And she turned away to a new day yet to dawn, crying. She was a brave girl.

Cynder Lynn bled red, bold as day,
Without a care or much to say.
And smiling widely she would remark,
“I really just hate people, that’s the lark.”

(Sigh) I think you sparked something I should have dealt with a long time ago, but was avoiding. Something from childhood. Isn't that where it all begins? Where we all get fucked up?

Peach grew from the smallest seed, always watching, always reading, always wondering what was wrong, and always wanting to belong to someone. She raised herself without knowing how, and inarticulately, she walked the earth on coltish legs. Wide-eyed, she’d panic now and then, but went forward into fear and the unknown. Peach was a lonely child in a family of five, an old soul mourning the loss of remembrance of better times. Petty guilt and remorse over inconsideracies plagued her, but her will was strong, bent only by clear and concise decision. Regret, she knows not, only loss. But Peach grew and is growing still. She is soft of flesh and strong of heart. At least, finally, she knows she is not alone, cannot do it alone, and will not have to.

And then I turn around and smile after crying, and I am eager for what may come. A cool hand reaching across the sheets to touch my too warm flesh. A child. But I am tired now and will bide my time, growing in strength of body and of mind and of spirit.

I
I was perfectly happy, and then I met you and maybe you reminded me of him a bit, though not at first. But I wouldn't know how a sister should act, or a brother. I have never known. But now you remind me of him. He was on the right track, but then he died, and I feel I should have helped him more, could have helped him more but for my stubbornness and need to force independence on others. And we’re friends now of a sort, you and I, and you’re trying so hard to get your life back on track, working hard, finding this new girl that I hope will stick with you and love you unconditionally. It’s just that you remind me of him sometimes – in a way. But then he died. And now I worry over you, because we are friends, and I am sick with loss.

Steam coming off the hot blacktop was thick, heavy and moist, difficult to breathe. I thought of you and almost cried, but I am out - in public. The tearing subsided, but the ache in my heart made the breathing even worse. Something’s wrong, I know it. It’s getting better, or rather, getting less – alleviating slowly. But it’s there, a deeply seeded sense of loss. And I cling to your friendship, inarticulately, like a child, while my heart is breaking over I know not what, but I listen to you and that is enough to draw me out of heartbreak. I don't feel I ever really listened to him. And everyone is always leaving.

II
My cycles are dwindling since May when I lost her in my heart - that tiny little spec of hope that was never there, and I wonder if worry is the cause. And when I lose everyone, who will remain? I feel like I have never been without you, and yet sometimes feel we are the victim of a certain sequence of events that we never stopped to ponder. But what will happen if I loose you? I worry. I am sick with loss and everyone is always leaving - except for you. But I am scared just a bit.

And my heart is bleeding...crushed and raw.