I want to put my lips

upon your throat

and take your pulse.

Maybe I can tell

if your blood flows hot and thick as wine

or if it is cold as ice,

and caught upon the

snow drifts and ice flows of your life.


I want to settle your hand in mine

and read your palm like an open book,

pinpoint the line

where your future intersects mine.


These are my fairytales,

how I rock myself to sleep each night.


These are the shadows on the edge of my skull,

playing tricks on my mind.


Lies and illusions look all the same against a night sky.

I will weep for you

and I will rend my clothes for you

and I will play the part of the holy mourner for you.

And when it is done,

I will stand up and dust off my knees

and walk away and

leave you smouldering in the ashes

of your holy fire,

fed by pride and anger and ego and confusion.

And if you do not understand,

it will not be on me.

And if you do not listen,

it is not my life that they will destroy.

So I will be your holy mirror

and I will weep and mourn

and then I will leave.