Reader in the Mountains

A crowded mind A cry of pain Like every moment was etched forever Nothing forgotten Nothing missed No secret chests to stash them away No wooden attics with a dangerous sway It is all bone and blood Enmeshed in it a twisted past A little light, a little mud A little word that will always last

It is the colour of ire The red of the fire Flames askew on their path of fury Burning all that they can't bury It is the colour of blood Wept in the fields of battle Blinding the eyes that shed them as tears Bubbling amidst the pool of fears It is the colour of vermilion Dispersed in the warm sunset winds Once a promise Now a revolution Red is of the bleeding heart For it bathes in the crying blood The one of ire, the one of fire But never the colour of love

I had hoped for a stream A calming constant Quiet undivided incessant Steady next to me But his love crashes like waves ebbing undecided forlorn An eruption today An abyss tomorrow I wanted the north star Holding my sky in his hands Bright and austere at once Ever lighting my bleak universe But here you are The shooting star Ablaze with all the warmth Then all at once, overcast