I once spoke
to an old oak tree.

He looked down,
and he said to me:

"Young writer,
story teller,
knower of words
of the soul,
listen well and
hear my story told.

She bares her punishment
In silence.

The tears she cries
Are shed in darkness,
Only to reveal the demon
Beneath.

You don't see me
anymore.

My concrete face has
lost its eyes,
nose,
lips.

A silent guard
for many years,
she sleeps beneath
my feet.

My stone wings
are broken,

An angel came
to me.
He took my hand,
looked into my eyes.

Said he'd show me
a place called
Paradise.

An angel came
to me.
He took my hand,
looked into my eyes.

Said he'd show me
a place called
Paradise.

Gliding on silent wings,
our forms melt into the night.
With eyes glittering dark
and black beaks stained red,

A piece of thread to secure a seam,
a leash to hold one to another.
Forever bound by word,
thought,
emotion.

Tied by invisible lines,
bound to Destruction
with Pain as a child

Flowers bloom in the sun,
blooming wildly in fields, hills, valleys..
Sun gives life
to otherwise dead seeds,
and life rises from the frozen ground in spring.

Beyond the farms,
beyond the fields,
deep in the wasteland mountains...