Crusade

I sorted them by shape and size,
Even chose to alphabetize.
My process slow and systematic,
As I placed each item in the attic.

A gauzy film of dust amassed,
Over these memories of my past.

Mistakenly I let fall, my line of defense,
And the dust disappeared at my panicked expense.

I retreated at first, like the girl from before,
But the stinging of old was too sharp to ignore.

‘Guess the war ‘aint over’, I have to say,
And so I battle the demons of yesterday.

Hawk Song

The clever cleaver is mincing words while the tablecloth fabricates a tale, woven like Anantzi the Spider’s glittering web, so delicate it falls apart in our hands, As we all wash off the cold blood in the fountain where we lost our youth some years ago.

...So I, stop and catch my breath because this year, I’m going to be older, and these friends don’t seem to know it, So I look above me and realize that I’m, No longer an ant on a big red checkered tablecloth, I am a hawk circling above, ready to barrel down and watch the fear smeared across the faces of my prey as I make my move in this world that has never offered me so much as road-kill...