We loved staying up at night,

Staring at the stars above us,

Naming the constellations,

And admiring the bright beauty of the moon.

Those nights were special,

As we talked about seeing the stars,

And our potential to reach them.

We all were broken,

In our own special way.

This brokeness,

And the night sky,

These two things were enough,

To bring us together.

We tried fixing each other,

Since we couldn’t do the same,

For ourselves.

In the end,

With all of our efforts,

We ended up hurting ourselves the most.

We crumbled even more,

And put the blame on each other,

Instead of taking responsibility,

For our own actions.

We had demanded we bring the moon to each other,

And the stars,

One by one,

From the night sky.

But what was the point?

All it would illuminate,

Is the chaos from within,

That we tried so hard to hide from ourselves.

Now we wait,

For the next group of people,

Whose problems we try to fix,

Instead of our own.

Another group,

To stare up at the stars,

And speak of the possibilities,

Just out of our reach.

The melody begins, entering in with a strong & gentle movem’nt. Goes to increase and become more pow’rful. Reminds me of a tiny seed~ small, ‘n’ yet ready for a lot of growth. Come on little seed— get ready to place your roots- reach out into the ground. It grows, stretching like arms above the ground.

The rain will help it to grow. See dark clouds forming about in the distance. Here comes a great downpour, a much needed storm. With some heat, sunlight to reach the plant, it’s source of helpful energy.

I wonder. Is there a person looking out for the seed as it grows in the forest. Keeping an eye to see that it grows to a great height! Grow on tiny seed into a mighty plant.

As the seed becomes a grand tree, she who watched it grow, moves along. Ready to go to another spot where another seed is ready to grow.

How she lives to see the plants grow, her favorite time is seeing the magic(k) happen. Turning the little seeds into alluring grand towering blooming plants!

#MAGIC(K)!

Cold metal on the back of my legs.

Tall trees and a dog that breathes.

Smells that take my mind places.

People that make me think of them

at early hours of the morning.

I don't know how to make points

or explain myself at times, cause as

much as I love them, I really hate words.

I wield a machete, slashing through thicket and vine to get to the words I need to bring you closer to where I am because you asked me what it’s like.

I bubble up from the slime that fills my lungs to meet your hand outreached to pull me back to where the rest of you live, just one more time.

I crawled out from under that dark rock where I was cool and calm and unembarrassed and in control, to meet you in the din of overstimulation and judgement, just in case I could still function there.

I stood in the light and waited for your warmth and the rescue of your breath and your eyes and your shoulder.

I waited there as it grew cold and started to rain on my nude and ugly body, everyone staring and wondering what was wrong with me.

You proudly drew me out and put a bow on it and smiled and called it a gift, while I shook and shuddered and felt alone in a room full of people.

Realizing you don’t understand what I am going through, and don’t want to, and won’t, is the worst pain I have ever endured.

You try to place me where I once fit, like a part of a puzzle you have been working on as a labor of love; that would be unnervingly incomplete if a piece went missing.

Your compulsion and denial pass over my pain like an eclipse, silencing me, beautifully.

They hover over & about

Thee Creator’s throne

Guarding it at all times

Mighty Seraphims

Can you hear their cry:

‘‘Holy!’’

The highest Angels order

"I remember the sparks that soared with each hammer-stroke, flying like fireflies. They danced across the anvil and left the scattered straw on the forge floor singed. All I could think of was the tragedy to follow should one ignite. The real tragedy was far worse."

"What was it?" asked the man in the cell next to mine.

"The reason why I'm locked in here," I told him.

"Which is...?"

I sighed. "Well, it wouldn't be much of a bedtime story if I told you the end."

"True, true," he said, leaning back against the stone wall. "Carry on."

"That morning my father took me to the mines in West Landen. The great pits of avalanched rock piled in each and every direction. 'Best ore for miles,' he kept saying along the way. 'We'll make you a mighty sword today. You're going to need one if you've already stopped growing.'"

"He liked to tease me about my size," I continued. "He could tell already by that I wasn't going to get any bigger. My mom was small and he wasn't so big himself, though he made up for it in muscle. I didn't seem to get that trait."

The man in the other cell laughed. "Yeah, you're lucky you're in a cell and not in The Pit."

"Yes, lucky to be in prison."

"Oh God, I didn't mean it that way." He peaked his eyes open and looked at me. "So what? You steal some ore with your daddy and they caught you? You stabbed a guard and they locked you up?"

"No. Are you even listening? I said it was tragic."

"Go on then. Just waiting for this great tragedy," said the man, closing his eyes.

"It was the first time my father took me to the mines. The first time he ever involved me in anything in his work. I think he always wanted me to find some other interest so he wouldn't have to raise me to be a blacksmith. His door was always closed, but today it was open. I felt like his son."

"The mine was larger than I expected and people crowded the place like a city street. Some with pales of ore, some picking through and some commanding the slaves every which way. It was controlled chaos. Like what I imagine a battle to be."

"Well if there's enough piss, shit, blood and screaming then it might be compared a battle. If not, you better not ever see a real battle," said the man, keeping his eyes closed. "Fuck, now you got me thinking of that."

"I'm sorry."

"Just keep going. Don't reference battle until you've seen one..."

"Okay," I said and sat down on the cobblestone floor. "We bought a cart full of ore from a merchant there, a Turkish man dressed in a turban and robes. I don't know how he managed such spirit in that heat. It was as if he was enjoying a party on an early summer's day."

"'Come back today and have a second for 30 coins,' he told us between the commands he yelled to his slaves. 'And 10 coins for a third!' My father refused."

"'Oh, come now. That's another ore for a week!' But still, my father shook his head, wouldn't even say a word. So I tugged on his coat. It seemed like a great deal and my father always complained about the price of ore. He didn't say a word to me and smacked our horse on the rear, walking off. I thanked the merchant and apologized before chasing off after him."

"'He's a snake,' my father muttered when we got a bit further. 'Tries to squeeze all the coin he can out of you and when you go back, he's gone.'"

"'But surely you'd find him, the place wasn't that large,' I told him, trying to find reason in his. He just sighed and we continued on our way."

The man in the other cell yawned and laid down. "Smart man," he said.

"What?"

"Smart man. You give a merchant more than a fair amount of silver and they'll disappear for an age."

I walked over to the bars, just under the torchlight. "And what about his slaves? He just leaves them?"

"Merchants don't own slaves, the landowners do. The owners of the mines give the merchants slaves and the merchant sells the ore the slaves deliver. Before the merchant can leave he gives a share to the landlord." He laughed again. "I don't think you understand how lucky you are you're in here. But go on, your innocence is amusing."

I let out a grunt which the man either didn't hear or care he heard.

"When we arrive at the forge, he has me unload the cart while he builds the fire. I saw how the slaves looked. They were feeble and lugged the ore onto the cart like bundles of hay." I could see the smile forming on the man's lips. "I struggled with each and every clump. Thank God my father was busy when I lugged the small ones. When it came time for the large ones he told me that even he had trouble with them sometimes, so we moved them together."

I paused for a moment, trying to find the words to continue. From as long as I could remember, I felt better telling stories than pretending nothing ever happened in my life. It helped me know what happened was real, even when I didn't want it to be.

"The forge is blazing as I work the bellows. My father makes quick work of a large chunk of ore, fashioning a hilt on one end before working on the blade. The familiar ring of the hammer sounds much more powerful in the presence of the blacksmith. The raw power of each blow passing through my skin."

"'You want to give it a strike?' he asks me while I stare at the glowing blade."

"'But the bellows,' I say. He shakes his head and gestures his hand to come to him."

"With my father holding the sword, he tells me where to strike. I miss. 'It's okay,' he says, 'feel the heat of the blade, the weight of the hammer and strike with purpose. Strike!'"

"I miss again. The disappointment is raw on my father's face. He begins to move and I know he's going to take the hammer from me."

"'One more time,' I tell him and he readies the blade. I did what he said. The heat of the metal burned into my skin; the hammer felt like I was wielding the Earth in my hand; I struck that steel to show the world that I would be a mighty blacksmith one day."

My gut lurched. I gripped the bars of the cell and beat my head against the steel. In the silence, my teardrops echoed.

"And?" the man said, his voice much more hushed than before.

"Sparks... and fire. Metal... and death... The ste—the steel erupted. The forge exploded." I forced the mucous back. "And my father's dead face gazed up at the open sky."

The man said nothing but looked at me with stricken eyes. It wasn't until I collected myself that he asked, "so why'd they lock you up then? Sounds like an accident to me."

"Before the city guards came, I wept at my father's side. You do crazy things in moments like that. I tried patching his wounds with straw. I held his head and told him, 'sorry,' more times than I can count. What the guards saw when they arrived was me looking at the sword. I, in disbelief and anguish that my hand did such heinous work. They, a murderer who struck down his father."

"'It exploded?' they laughed as they slung me in shackles. 'What'd you do, cast a spell?' They wouldn't listen. They threw me in the cell so I wouldn't get the other crazies in The Pit worked up."

Just then, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Two men with torches and guardsmen armour approached the cell next to mine. One threw a scroll into the cell and the other approached the door.

"Hendle Bannark, you are being sentenced for: failure to follow your commander's order in battle. Such offense is on par with treason. How do you find yourself?"

"Have you ever seen bat—"

"Guilty it is," continued the guard. The other unlocked the door.

"This is treason!" the man yelled. "Treason to your citizens! Punishing the men who won't die for your kingdom!"

The guardsman approached the man, bringing down his torch across the man's face. It knocked him unconscious and left a small wound that bled onto the floor. The man was dragged out by the guard while the other guardsman approached me.

"Leon Hullow," he said.

I couldn't even look at him. "I find myself broken if it matters at all to you."

"Well, you should pick up the pieces. You're free to go."

"You believe my story?"

"No, but the warden is intrigued. You will be meeting with him before you depart, granted he still finds a reason to believe your story. Common, hurry up. He is not a patient man."